 
Mickey 6

John M. Koelsch

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Smashwords Edition

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Table of Contents

Dedication

To The Reader

Prologue

Chapter 1 ~ Welcome to 'Nam

Chapter 2 ~ Learning to Dance

Chapter 3 ~ Little Tet

Chapter 4 ~ Quick Kill

Chapter 5 ~ Search & Destroy

Chapter 6 ~ The Michelin – Not Just a Tire

Chapter 7 ~ Messages

Chapter 8 ~ I Could' a Been Killed

Chapter 9 ~ Frolics for the Fourth

Chapter 10 ~ Thunder Six

Chapter 11 ~ Phu Loi

Chapter 12 ~ Who's Ambushing Whom?

Chapter 13 ~ Of Milk Caramels & Other Joys and Sorrows

Chapter 14 ~ Passages

Chapter 15 ~ The Playmate Was Golden – the Star Bronze

Chapter 16 ~ Citation for Mickey's Bronze Star

Chapter 17 ~ Riding a Whirlwind

Chapter 18 ~ Final Days – Part the First

Chapter 19 ~ Final Day

Chapter 20 ~ Aftermath

Chapter 21 ~ Afterword

Chapter 22 ~ Forever in Black (On Visiting the Wall)

Acknowledgements

A Note From Nancy Wheeler

About the Author

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Dedication

To Robert and Anna Koelsch, my parents who gifted me with the strength of spirit to survive Vietnam. To Marlene Ann Koelsch, my daughter who gifted me with a reason to keep on living. And, to Joseph Michael and Savannah Lee Koelsch, my grandchildren, who gifted me with hope for the future.

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To the Reader

I chose to tell this story in the form of a novel for three reasons: first, that form enabled me to more easily present the truth of my experience; second, it allowed me to include a few stories that happened, but not to me; and third, it protects the guilty, beginning with myself. Some of the people who have assisted me in completing this book commented that it reads almost like a memoir. While that is not precisely accurate, I believe that, in a sense, it represents a memoir for all who have served their country in this sad chapter of our military history. This includes those who did it well and those who struggled. Most importantly, it includes those who paid the ultimate price. I hope you find that I have represented them in the positive manner they deserve.

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Mickey 6

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Prologue

Pre-monsoon rains caused a precipitous drop in the temperature that night. A wicked 116 degrees during the day fell to 68. An arctic cold 68. The Kafkaesque landscape was a ghoulish, murky, midnight green. The flares being dropped from the Cessna O1 Bird Dog spotter plane droning overhead transformed the area to an outpost of Hades. Alone, fifty meters outside the ambush perimeter, I searched for a spot to set up a listening post.

My unease, already high from day-long nasty fire fights, had been heightened by my earlier sighting of a Viet Cong patrol. My platoon was set up on the base end of an L shaped ambush bordered by the jungle where the sighting had occurred. The long side of the L ran into the rice paddies. The listening outpost was needed for early warning of the enemy's approach.

Suddenly, there was no need for the post. Twelve VC walked into the paddy about two hundred meters out from me. They were spaced one on point, ten in the main body, and one on trail. I froze and prayed they wouldn't notice me. I thought, The guys know I'm out here. They won't trigger the 'bush! Recon platoon, on the far end of the L to my left, shredded that thought as they triggered and decimated the enemy. Red tracer rounds from M-16 rifles and the M-60 machine gun ripped into the point and the main body with a huge roar.

Deep in my gut horror erupted as the 'Trail' spotted me, pivoted, and threw his AK47 to his shoulder aimed directly at me....

I took a half step toward him, slung my M-16 halfway up my ribs, pointed, and with obscene calmness, ripped off all twenty rounds in my magazine....

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Chapter 1 ~ Welcome to 'Nam

The Continental Jet, The Bird with the Golden Tail, made a sharp turn. The pilot announced, "We'll be taking a steep landing approach to minimize the chances of being greeted with a rocket. Those babies tend to mess up the paint job. Welcome to Viet Nam, Republic of. Today's temperature is a balmy one hundred and seven degrees at eleven hundred hours. Thank you for flying Continental. We work our tail off for you. Have a nice war."

When I graduated from Infantry Officer Candidate School in April 1967, about ninety percent of each O.C. class received thirty days leave and a ticket to "Sunny Southeast Asia." When my class was commissioned, all of the levies were filled so they placed my company in a file to reach out and touch a year later. This wouldn't have been a bad deal if the powers that be had deigned to let us know. A year spent in expectation of receiving orders to go to war at any minute is not conducive to a peaceful life and good times. However, it did provide us something of a class reunion on the plane, albeit a less enthusiastic one than other circumstances might engender.

My classmate, Tony Lawrence, finished his story about our encounter on the grenade range where, as the Officer In Charge, he had volunteered me to demonstrate to my training company the proper technique for throwing a grenade. I had returned the favor by volunteering Tony, much to his distress – he had seen my grenade throwing skills – to act as my safety officer. Tony laughed as he said, "...and he threw that damn grenade straight and true, clear off the whole damn grenade range. Never before, and likely never again, is he gonna throw one like that."

He pointed at me, reminding me of the priests in the seminary giving a sermon, "Don't you be messing with throwing any grenades, you hear. You've used up the only good throw you're ever gonna have."

"That's so true," I agreed. "Fortunately, I do a bit better with other weapons."

I'd qualified at expert level with the M-16 and M-14 rifles, the M-60 machinegun, the .45 caliber automatic pistol, and the M-79 Grenade Launcher. I even received instruction in knife throwing by a Green Beret Captain friend. If I could see it, I could hit it; although my eyesight made that problematical at times. I'd also trained as an instructor in the Army "Quick Kill" system of accurate combat shooting. Through a chance encounter with its creator, I'd received additional instruction on the system's theory and use, which would significantly contribute to my survival, although I didn't know it at the time.

Conversations tailed off as the wheels touched down. I swallowed the anti-malaria pill that the stewardess had distributed. Guess that makes the war officially open for business. Everyone gathered their meager personal belongings, and in a moment long in coming that arrived too quickly, the 'stews' were ushering us off the plane.

The heat, humidity, and bright, blistering sun – a tad less bright than gazing directly into a supernova – hit me like a sledge hammer. The 107 degrees, slightly higher than normal, was intensified by the tarmac. We assembled into basic military formation a hundred meters from the plane. Following the proud military tradition of hurry up and wait, once formed and ready to move, we didn't go anywhere.

After an hour, we marched a few hundred yards to a large metal, airplane-hangar-type building. Out of the sun, but also nearly out of air, its hot, stagnant, pungent ozone stifled us. Three officers keeled over from the heat. I'd fall over and join them, but that would require an expenditure of energy.

The "Welcome-to-Vietnam–Here-is-what-you-can't-do" lecture droned on. We declared we were not bringing any contraband into the country, picked up our duffle bags, and cleared the building. We loaded onto an OD – the Army's favorite color; the Army's only color: olive-drab – deuce and a half transport truck for the ride to in-country processing, where we would receive our unit assignments.

As we rolled onto the hard pack road and picked up speed, we received momentary relief from the heat due to the wind and no canopy on the truck. Then another major element of the Viet Nam experience enveloped us. A whirlwind of airborne-red, sandpaper, crawl-right-into-your-underwear-and-grind-on-important-parts grit boiled over us stirred by the trucks ahead. I hunkered down stoically, and thought of a nice, cool, three-hour shower. No help, but it passed the time.

We drove past soldiers, stripped to the waist, who had a sun-baked nut-brown finish that any California surfer would envy, engaged in various activities from driving Rome Plows – huge D7 E tractors with a special tree-cutting blade for land clearing – to filling sand bags. Each and everyone, thumped their chest, and yelled the same thing. At first, I couldn't make out their gracious greeting. Finally, I understood. "Short! Short!" I confess that for five seconds it offended me to hear derogatory comments on my five-six stature. Then I realized they were commenting on the item of highest importance to each Viet Nam soldier – their DEROS (Date Estimated for Return from Over Seas).

A U.S. Army tour of duty in Viet Nam was one year – three hundred and sixty-five days. Marines, being very dedicated and not too bright, got an extra month. DEROS was your day of delivery from hell. The closer the date, the shorter you became. On the truck, we were the tallest kids on the block. An on-going contest in country was to creatively describe your shortness.

"I'm so short....

"I have to look up to see down."

"When the hot water from the shower finally gets to me, it's cold."

"I have to climb a ladder to lace my boots."

"I can't carry on a long conversation."

"I'm more worried about Charlie stepping on me than shooting at me."

We reached the processing area, off-loaded, got our billets, had lunch at the mess hall, and settled down to wait. All assignments would be posted late that day.

No shade and no breeze. I found a spot on some sandbags where I could see any postings, sat and thought, How had I, a young Catholic boy – an ex-seminarian for cripes sake – arrived at a "for real" shooting war as, of all things, a Combat Platoon Leader?

The "Catholic" part is easy to explain. I was the third child of eight, born into a large, closely knit Catholic family. When you're born into it, it's hard to get out.

The "ex-seminarian" part requires a bit more explanation.

The priests who taught us, and who, as God's representatives on earth (according to the Catholic Church), were our role models, turned out to have feet of clay and minds of mush. In later years, I would come to understand this was a common human condition.

At the time it devastated me.

I never understood how you could claim to represent God and routinely choose to cheat over meaningless things, and not keep your word. My highest value was honesty. Cheating was cheating and lies were lies.

Following a two a.m. rule-bending episode involving a dynamic basketball game, and a Prefect telling lies, I spent a long year searching deep in my soul, and decided that the particular hypocrisies involved in religious life weren't for me. I left the seminary.

I'm not sure the "Combat Platoon Leader in a shooting war" part is explainable.

After leaving the seminary, I spent a few months working and having a good time, then enlisted in the U.S. Army. I would have gone Air Force but with my eyesight – blind in the right eye, can't see out of the left, according to my Dad – there was no chance of my learning to fly. Army it was.

I loved my country enough to kill and die for it, but I did not enlist out of patriotic or heroic motives. I would have passed if possible. I knew I'd be drafted, enlisting at least let me choose a non-combat option. I chose Clinical Psychologist Assistant.

Supper time arrived. No postings. Conversations in the mess hall were a bit tense. Everyone focused on the preference for combat assignment.

"What do you think?" asked one of my table mates.

"I dunno, I'd be perfectly happy with any unit operating anywhere in Germany."

The postings appeared about a half hour after supper. The Military divided the country into four Corps Areas, I through IV north to south. I drew III Corps, the First Division, whose headquarters were in Lai Khe about fifty miles north of Saigon. Their AO (area of operations) included Saigon and ranged over to the Cambodian Border, with quaintly named but deadly areas, such as: Cu Chi (infamous for its tunnel system); the Michelin (the world's deadliest rubber plantation); the Black Widow Mountains (two round mounds imagined as woman's breasts by horny young soldiers, many of whom would not return alive from the encounter); the Parrot's Beak (named for the shape formed by the Cambodia/Viet Nam border – a regular jumping off point for VC excursions); and the treacherous Iron Triangle (with a heavy concentration of Viet Cong Forces). I was assigned to the 1st Battalion, 28th Infantry. The 1/28th operated out of a base at Quan Loi, in the Tay Ninh Province fifty miles north of Lai Khe, way out in 'Indian Country'. A brother unit, the 2/28th, had suffered 64 killed and 132 wounded in a single battle at Ong Than west of Lai Khe the previous October.

None of this meant much to me. I felt moderately pleased to be in the "Big Red One." The First Division had a battle history going back to the First World War and a solid reputation. They were well known for their willingness to fire artillery support all day long. This delighted me, as it seemed smarter and far more fun than infantry assaults.

That evening a movie was shown at an outdoor amphitheatre. We sat on wooden bleachers. The popcorn wilted from the humidity. The feature – Mr. Roberts, a favorite of mine – starred Henry Fonda as Lt. (j.g.) Douglas Roberts, James Cagney as Captain Morton, and Jack Lemmon as Ensign Frank Thurlowe Pulver. It was a weird feeling sitting in a foreign country under the stars, munching bad popcorn and watching two American icons dueling each other. Cagney, as the martinet ship's Captain struggled with Hank, the second in command, who was intervening on behalf of the troops. Kind of a comedic version of The Caine Mutiny. A true, All-American bit of war propaganda. It worked well for WWII. I had serious reservations on how it might apply in this war.

A lot of people thought God was always on America's side. I believed Napoleon had it right when he said, "God is on the side of the heavy artillery." Of course, we did have the heavy artillery. I hoped it would prove sufficient.

About fifteen minutes into the movie...

SHREEEE! KABLAM! SHREEEE! KABLAM!

The shrieking scream of 122 MM rockets will get your attention! We vacated the amphitheatre in military terms "with great rapidity." For the civilians among you that means like the fox motivating from the hen house when the farmer shows up with his double barreled artillery. After a few moments we realized the attack was focused on a section of the base several miles from us. It produced one hell of a nice fireworks show, but wasn't an immediate, direct threat to us. It ended quickly in under fifteen minutes.

Few returned to the flick. I wandered back to the barracks, sat on my bunk and prompted by my first, albeit brief and distant, taste of real hostilities, resumed my musings about why I was in Vietnam.

Going from a Clinical Psychologist Assistant to an Infantry Combat Platoon Leader was a matter of making small decisions which meant little when taken singly but collectively became an awesome, life-changing force.

The first small decision was at the Ft. Benning, Georgia Army Reception Center. I decided to take the Officer Candidate Test rather than clean the barracks. The second, was to treat the test as a challenge. I turned the test over to Problem Solving Central where my "Superior Problem Solving Skills" reside and aced it.

Acing it brought on the next decision. The Captain and the Colonel both attempted to persuade me to abandon the safe haven of Psychologist Assistant and attend Officer Candidate School. Fully aware of my allergy to small holes being inflicted on my body causing the leaking of precious red liquid, I declined.

My Drill Instructor, Sergeant First Class Cletus Tillman disagreed with my decision and took offense. He pressured me with an amazing variety of tactics—unsuccessfully. When I won the trophy for the highest score in the Individual Proficiency Test at the end of Basic Training, he went ballistic. He chewed thoroughly up one side and completely down the other for a full hour.

He finished with, "Yoo must have cheated. Y'ain't thet smart. A mahlingerer like yoo can't be as good as a damn avrij soljer, let alone be the best. Does cheetin' run in yore famlee boy? Yoo best not go to O.C.S. Yoo won't make it through!"

That was the button. He not only hit it, he smashed that sucker good. My insides imploded. Betrayed by my church and now derided as incompetent by this fool. Enough! I'll go become an officer and come back and lock that ignorant hillbilly D.I.'s heels. I'll show him. I'll show them all!

I heard a voice saying, "Where do you sign up for Officer Candidate School?" That voice was mine. Another small decision and the slippery slope to war steepened.

I survived Officer Candidate School because of a small decision by some unknown clerk to place me in the 5th Student Battalion (OC) 54th (OC) Company, 4th Platoon, where I fell under the gentle scourge of Tactical Officer Robert "Bobby" Butler.

As a Tac, Bobby utilized a unique approach to training. He came in on Thursdays, issued sufficient demerits to eliminate weekend passes, and ignored us for the remainder of the week. Meanwhile all the other Tacs were constantly harassing their platoons and their platoons were shaping up and looking sharp.

We were not.

We requested a meeting with Bobby to "explore" this issue.

We assembled in a twelve by thirty foot room. Bobby ordered all forty-five of us into the front leaning rest position (commonly known as the push-up position), sat in the only chair in the room and said "Okay, what's this all about?"

Our spokesman yelled "Sir, Candidate requests permission to speak. Sir."

"Permission granted. Speak." said Bobby.

"Sir. Why is it you spend so little time with us? Sir."

Bobby laughed and said "You people are sooo stupid! I am going to tell you the answer right now. I am going to give you everything you need to succeed. But, will you listen? I doubt it.

"You will never be honor platoon. They stop giving out honor platoon in the sixteenth week and you will never be honor platoon. For the next eleven weeks you will be a bunch of disorganized, stupid clowns. In the sixteenth week you will wake up and understand what I am about to tell you. From that point you will be the best platoon and be recognized as the best. But, you will never be honor platoon.

"The secret is simple. All you have to do is keep in mind that the goal is for the team, the group, to succeed. That won't happen until everyone works together and does their job. The secret to success in understanding leadership is finding what it takes to get the team to do what needs to be done. Not issuing orders and yelling at people.

"I've given you a gift. You're too stupid and stubborn to believe me, so you will continue to struggle. Now give me one hundred push-ups and go clean your barracks."

As we bounced up and down on the floor, I was as skeptical as any of my platoon mates of the "gift." It would be some time before I realized that it would not only be the key to my completing O.C.S., but would also be responsible for my surviving Vietnam.

Bobby seemed correct, at least regarding honor platoon. The Fourth remained a mess. He was also correct about the sixteenth week, when he appointed me acting Platoon Sergeant. On my first morning as Platoon Sergeant, the Company split in half with the first three platoons sent out on training. As the Platoon Sergeant for the Fourth, I automatically became Acting Company First Sergeant. The Fifth Platoon received the morning off from their Tac. As Honor Platoon, Sixth Platoon was not available for work assignments. All of this meant that I had one platoon to perform the work tasks of six.

Problem Solving Central failed to generate any engagingly dynamic ways to work out this particular leadership problem, so I called the Fourth together and simply told them what we had to deal with.

To my bemusement there was no bitching or griping. Instead the guys went to work. I mean, they went to work, sweeping the halls at a full run and doing everything else at the same pace. They all reported back to me for work assignments at least three times with many finishing four and five tasks. They completed all of the work scheduled for the entire company by lunch. We boarded the buses for transport to an afternoon of training in good order.

Bobby, as usual, did not ride on the bus with us. That placed me in the unique situation of being actually in charge, because the Acting Platoon Leader/Company Commander was a mental midget – useless. Most days not important, this time it was. The bus broke down. We were stranded with neither communication nor supervision. The Platoon leader panicked and began spewing gibberish. I ignored him and considered the situation for a moment. Problem Solving Central kicked in with a brilliant solution. Send someone for help.

I told the Platoon Leader, "Shut up!" grabbed one of my squad leaders and instructed him to hike back to the company and advise them of the situation. The squad leader took off. I sat down with every intention of relaxing and forgoing any additional decision-making.

It was not my day. Five minutes after I had mentally signed off, an ice cream truck pulled up behind the bus. In the proud tradition of military discipline every officer candidate clamored for "pogie bait" goodies, not withstanding the cold February weather.

The Platoon Leader resumed panic mode, babbling about court martials and other silliness. Again, I told him "Shut up!" and did the same for the troops. Stepping off the bus, I looked around very carefully for any sign of Tac Officers. Seeing none, I stepped back on the bus and, in my best command voice, shouted "Okay! Listen up! This is the plan. Two guys off the bus at one time. It's your own ass if you get caught and nobody squeals. Nobody!"

My announcement was greeted with cheers and a rush to be first off the bus.

Finally, all were served, and I went to get my share. Ice cream in February? Delectable!

There is simply no sanity in war.

Shortly after I finished, another bus pulled up. We loaded and proceeded to the training site.

Because the bus broke down, we arrived too late for a briefing on the mission. Quickly informing us of a mechanized assault on a hill position with M-60 Main Battle Tanks and Armored Personnel Carriers, our instructors bellowed, "Mount up! Go!"

I hopped into an APC with one of my squads, and we took off through the woods behind a tank. As we approached the edge of the woods, short of the objective, the tank disappeared into a huge shell hole. A moment later it rose on the far side, struggling. Its tracks churned, spewing red Georgia clay everywhere, trying to exit the hole. The APC driver, a former officer candidate who had little love for current candidates, slammed on the brakes and stopped the APC at the rim of the hole. The driver and everyone else stared at me.

If we went around the hole, the evaluation of the mission would go into the toilet.

If we went into the red, Georgia, tank-stopping hole in an underpowered APC and didn't make it out the other side, the evaluation would go into the toilet, followed by me. My guys would insert me and righteously flush away because they would have to climb out through that red muck. Problem Solving Central became non-functional.

The tank, with far stronger traction and power than our APC, struggled out the other side. Hell! Live a little! I gave a tally-ho wave of my arm to the driver and shouted "Go for it!" My guys muttered. I heard various vague references to lynching – mutinous for sure – as we plunged down, slipped through the bottom and started up the other side.

The phrases grew quite descriptive as to the length of the rope and the height of the tree as the APC, its treads losing traction, stalled and slid back. I leaned down to the driver and yelled in his ear, "Gun it! Now!"

The driver snarled back "You got it!" and applied full power. We stopped, spun in place momentarily and shot upwards out of the hole. Airborne! We flew over the top, missed an extremely large tree by eighteen inches, thudded to the ground and roared up the hill. My spirits went airborne with the APC. A damned exhilarating ride! We slammed to a stop at the assembly point and ran up the hill, screaming as all warriors are trained to do. My own vocalizations were from exultation at the exercise, plus extreme relief at not having to carry the entire squad out of that hole on my back.

The instructors rated our exercise Superior, due mainly to the "Dynamic Aggression" displayed by the APC going airborne. The morning group had received only an Excellent rating. One week later, Bobby called me to his office, and I found out how dynamic the week had been. I stood at attention in front of his desk. He stared at me and in a quiet, sinister voice said, "I want to know what you did."

"Sir. Candidate does not know whereof you speak, Sir."

"You received eight Outstanding and one Excellent rating as acting Platoon Sergeant. I want to know what you did. Did you pay these people?"

Which jerk only gave me an excellent? I said, "Sir. Candidate paid no one. Candidate believes he merely demonstrated his leadership ability and was rated accordingly. Sir."

"Bullshit! I intended to kick you out! Now I can't. You've been in leadership positions before and didn't demonstrate goose doo-doo. I want to know what you did."

"Sir. Candidate respectfully notes that previously he has only been a squad leader, which is a flunky position. He tried to be a good flunky and let other candidates demonstrate their leadership, Sir."

"I'm not buying any of that. I believe you had to do something, but I don't have a clue as to what you did. I can't panel you and get rid of you with these ratings but I'm going to be watching you. Now get out of here and give me 500 push-ups in the hallway."

"Sir. Yes, Sir."

Around push-up 237 it hit me. It was the sixteenth week. It had nothing to do with my leadership – well, maybe a little – we had finally got it! As a group, the essence of leadership – do what is necessary to get the job done – had dawned in our skulls. Around push-up 327 I decided—astutely—not to point this out to Bobby.

I graduated and was commissioned as a Second Lieutenant, Infantry. I went back to Sand Hill looking for Tillman to lock his heels for him, even though I felt no anger. He had shipped out for Vietnam the week before. A year later, having spent a year as a Basic Training Officer across the street from where I had taken Basic, here I was – a Combat Platoon Leader in a real shooting war. God, help me. I'm not ready to lead and care for men in combat. I wasn't really looking for this. God—I mean it—help me.

Finally, rest was the best idea. I laid down to sleep.

Morning arrived at early 0600. In addition to my other quirks, I see sleeping as one of the truly great sensual delights. I never did learn to appreciate the military's insistence on facing the day before any normal person is awake. However, I managed to rise, make it to the mess hall for breakfast, grab my duffle, and assemble on time for my flight to Quan Loi.

"Hurry up and wait." Arrival at the airport was 0830 hours. Departure wasn't until 1045. The UH 1D Huey Helicopter, called a slick, could transport eleven soldiers. My ride brought us into Quan Loi at noon. Viewed from six thousand feet, the base sat on a large hill among slightly higher surrounding hills, clipped by some giant scythe to flatten its top and denude it of greenery. It nestled in a primeval jungle stretching to the farthest horizons resembling a tumultuous ocean with raging green waves. To me Vietnam frequently resembled imaginary, fabled Oz. So green. So strange. So beautiful. Yet filled with dangers far worse than flying monkeys and pissed off bad witches. I mean, a few fireballs from a witch's broom and monkeys with swords and pikes isn't nearly as intimidating as small brown men with 122MM rockets, AK-47s, and improvised mines.

I'm not in Kansas anymore.

The slick landed in good order, and I reported to battalion headquarters promptly. The clerk said "Drop your duffle in the corner LT We'll process you after lunch."

Lunch; excellent idea.

Processing accomplished, I was assigned to Company D and scheduled for in-country training the next day. The company was due in from the field in two days. I found a bunk in the officer's billet and set out to enjoy the rest of the day.

I took a walk to check out the base – all of thirty minutes – not many sites of interest. The two highlights were the PX, an eight by ten foot room where you could get sundries such as toothpaste and two month old magazines; and the beer garden, a dozen picnic tables next to a bar area. Closed. I returned to the barracks and read a Modesty Blaise novel I had brought. Modesty, a private sector, female James Bond was definitely a light weight concept. It was a fun, no mental strain read.

I passed the afternoon heat alternating between Modesty and naps. Following supper, I read some more, took a short walk, felt depressed, alone, and isolated, took a long, cold shower and went to sleep before 2200.

My 'sweet wet dreams' were rudely interrupted—

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

"Incoming! Mortars! Incoming!"

I struggled to sit up, wipe the sleep from my eyes and focus on my wristwatch. Damn! 0100, a helluva time to start playing.

Boots thudded down the hallway, past my cot and out the door to the bunker fifty meters away.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Don't like the dance music either!

I reached for my boots. Problem Solving Central kicked in, The rounds are landing a good half mile away. Mortars typically are not adjusted a half mile at a time. Reasonably safe from the mortar rounds, I listened for the sound of bugles, or whistles, or the ring of rifle fire which would indicate a ground attack. None. I took my time pulling on my boots. Three more rounds thumped in.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Not any closer.

I walked out of the billet and strolled to the bunker. I bent down near the entrance and said "Hello in there. Hey, what kind of mickey mouse establishment is this that allows its guests to be so rudely awakened?"

"Are you crazy? There's a mortar attack going on! You could get killed! Get in here!"

"Nah! I think they were aiming up the road a piece. Besides, I think Charlie has called it a night and gone home to mama-san. I'm going back to my suite."

As I turned some one asked "Who is that?"

"It's that new LT. He must be crazy!"

I smiled. A reputation for crazy might be useful in the insane arena of war.

Staff Sergeant Lopez, a small wiry man, conducted in-country training the next morning. M-16 rifles issued, we assembled outside the wire on the west slope of Quan Loi hill. The mosquitoes swarmed. I sprayed the army insect repellant in liberal amounts on my neck and arms and squirted a few ounces of repellant into my hands and bathed my face.

Sgt Lopez intoned, "The temperature is projected to reach a toasty 105 degrees today. You will note, we have chosen an area for training where there is no shade. This will allow you to take full advantage of the opportunity to lay a good base for your tan."

His remarks seemed innocuous enough, but they seemed aimed directly between my eyes.

The training, as most military training, proceeded ponderously, mind-numbingly slowly. The army believes if everything is done at the slowest possible pace, everyone will learn the lesson. For those with intelligence, of course, it means a lot of time spent daydreaming. In this case, my mind focused on cool, clear water in an amazing variety of settings. I certainly was sweating significant amounts of H2O as Sergeant Lopez had us fire a refresher course with the M-16 and conducted various types of assaults up the hill.

As the morning moved towards lunch time—two discoveries: Vietnamese mosquitoes consider army insect repellant equivalent to A-1 Steak Sauce; and the sun treats it as cooking oil. I soon developed a lobster glow, and was not amused when Sergeant Lopez said, "LT, that repellant has one good use, but it's got nothing to do with insects."

"What would that be Sergeant?"

He responded laconically, "A smart officer would figure it out."

"Pretty Mickey-Mouse, Sergeant."

I shook my head and decided to figure out the good use later. It was clear what the damn repellant was not good for! By lunch a claim of being Native American would have been upheld per the available evidence. Fortunately, lunch signaled the end of training.

Back at the barracks I applied salve to my face, neck and arms, and ruefully thought, At least I'm ready to go into the field and get it on. Naturally, per army S.O.P., I would sit at the base doing nothing for two more days before joining the battalion. There was no special reason. Every morning and afternoon I checked with Battalion Ops and was told, no orders to the field yet.

On the second evening we sat in the mess hall, which doubled as a lounge, enjoying beer at fifteen cents a bottle. Mixed drinks cost twenty cents. Sergeant Major Barnes gave a language lesson when a Sergeant asked him his opinion of the Vietnamese Language school.

The Sergeant Major belched, rubbed his bulging stomach, stared at the sergeant with a suitable evil eye and sneered, "Hell, you only need about a half dozen words to get through this piddling little war. I'll list 'em for you. There's 'Boo Koo', not that crappy French 'beaucoup', but 'Boo Koo' and 'Tee Tee'. Boo Koo is a whole bunch and Tee Tee is very little. Damn gooks can't count! With them, a bunch or a little is all you need."

He took a long swig of his Heineken and continued, "Next you have Number One and Number Ten. One is the best, of course. All good, A-OK." Another swig. "Ten is the pits. No good."

Then there's 'Diddymau' and 'Laddymau'. They mean get out of here for Diddy and come here for Laddy. Easy enough! He finished his beer, gave another belch and concluded with a flourish, "Finally, 'Dinkydau', means crazy mother fucker. And let me tell you, if you ain't when you get here, before you leave you'll be Boo Koo Dinkydau!"

The Sergeant Major was pretty short, five days and a wake up left to his DEROS. He'd been sleeping in one of the covered bunkers, built by the engineers near the barracks, every night for the last month. Dug eight feet down and layered over with timbers and five feet of earth they weren't comfortable, but he was determined not to die in a mortar attack. He was not courageous, but had developed a truly admirable command of the language.

After lunch the third day, the battalion clerk came running to find me. "LT, grab your gear and hustle down to the air strip! A chopper is holding to take you out to the battalion. The Colonel is pissed about where you've been and why you ain't in the field! Gotta move, Sir!"

For just a moment, I considered bringing several varieties of mayhem down on his head, since he had been the one who had kept me sitting and now, apparently had got me in trouble with the Brass. Then I shrugged, This is why you're here, and got my gear. Thirty minutes later my chopper lifted. Another fine mess you've got me into.

The chopper circled the Battalion Night Defensive Position. The pilot called for smoke. It was clearly a large group of American soldiers below, but military protocol for pilots to identify the Landing Zone was a seriously important element in everyone staying alive. It was followed meticulously, even if not apparently necessary. A canister of red colored smoke was popped and the pilot circled in to the LZ inside the N.D.P. circle.

Smoke came in four colors – red, yellow, green, and purple. A pilot called for smoke and identified the color. Upon confirmation, the pilot would land. In the boonies, such a call often resulted in two smokes being popped. Charlie had access to grenades stolen from us. He figured he might throw the right color and draw a chopper into an ambush. It rarely worked, but no one objected to following the protocol.

I reported in to Lieutenant Colonel Danvers, who gave me a slant eyed look and said, "Lieutenant, we've needed you out here with your company. Where've you been goofing off?"

"Sir, I've been at Quon Loi checking Battalion Ops twice a day for orders to report. I'm ready and willing to go! Sir."

"Well, you better never give less than 110 percent! You understand me?"

"Sir. That will be my minimum effort, I assure you." I tried to not spit it out, but biting my tongue makes me edgy.

"Fine. You're assigned to Delta Company as a Platoon Leader. Captain Chapman will give you your platoon. He's short. About two weeks left in the field. His replacement should be here soon. You'll be going through a lot of changes quickly. Try to stay on top of them. The men need and deserve good leadership. Any questions?"

"No, Sir. I'm ready to do my best to lead my men and accomplish the mission."

"Okay then. Before you join your company, I'm sending C Company's third platoon on a recon. Since the Tet offensive ended, the VC have been trying to build up for another offensive and we're trying to find them. Why don't you tag along? Start learning your job."

"Sounds excellent to me, Sir!"

"Sergeant Jordan, take this young buck over to C Company. Hook him up with the recon."

In twenty minutes, I met Lt. Joe Weiman, sat in on his platoon briefing and left the battalion perimeter on my first patrol. Within five minutes, we were out of sight. We were at sixty percent strength, with twenty-nine men counting me. The potential danger generated a modest amount of insecurity.

We moved in standard bush formation. Point man first, keeping us out of ambushes by constantly surveying the terrain to his front. Next was drag, who followed the point a few meters behind and a meter or two to the side. He also focused on the immediate front, but had primary responsibility for overhead. If the platoon patrolled among trees, sniper's nests and overhead booby traps were his concern. Third in line was compass, charged with keeping the platoon on course. Weiman, filled this position on this day, followed by his radio man. I followed him. We did not use flanks to guard the sides of the platoon from attack. The Platoon Sergeant walked in the rear, charged with keeping us secure from a pincers attack, front and back at the same time.

We moved through the bush with absolute minimum conversation. The men were alert not tense. Veterans, who were sure of their routine. I hoped my platoon would be this professional.

Eight hundred meters out the point called a halt. He moved forward alone and disappeared. Tension mounted. Five minutes, seeming like fifty, passed. He returned.

"LT, Some freshly cut trees, roosters crowing, and a bit of gook conversation dead ahead about a hundred and fifty meters."

"Estimates on numbers? Guesses on friendly or hostile?" asked Weiman.

"Could be boo koo. There's enough tree cutting and noise. In this area, I wouldn't count on them wanting to hold your hand except to chop it off."

"Okay. Good work. Return to your position and hold. I'll discuss this with Lassiter." While we waited for the Platoon Sergeant, Weiman educated me.

"Could be a VC company of about ninety or even a battalion with three or four companies ahead. The freshly cut trees and crowing roosters mean it is likely a larger group not a small patrol. When in doubt, always bet on their being hostile. You won't mind if you lose the bet on that side. They are even more careful about noise than us. So when you can hear them it's usually because there's enough of them, they ain't too concerned about you."

"You thinking of sending an element forward to get a better look or placing the platoon on line and moving forward in force?" I asked.

"Probably neither one – here's Lassiter. Top, Eddie reports fresh cuttings, roosters crowing, and boo koo dink talk ahead a hundred and fifty. What do you think?"

"Well, LT, given our short staffing. Considering how prompt battalion always is with help when you need it—I think you might want to consider Operation Smoke."

"Operation Smoke? Sounds interesting. Want to fill me in Joe? Top?" I asked.

Joe responded, "Simple. We take a right turn and quietly bug out. We cut across ninety degrees on our planned course and pick it up on the return path. There's a nice sized clearing on the route back in. We'll stop and rest for an hour or two there. The smoke part is, we'll call in positions as if we are following the planned route. Battalion will never know."

"Joe, your platoon, your call, but what about our mission? Aren't we out here to locate the enemy?"

Exasperated, Joe snapped. "Well, when it's your call in a situation like this, you might want to keep in mind that you're out here with less than thirty guys and you could be facing ninety to four hundred of the enemy. Those are fool's odds. If you want to survive the 'Nam, learn not to be a fool."

"Point taken, Joe! No sweat G.I. For my information, what if we run into other unfriendlies and ain't where we've reported to Battalion?"

"Hell man, none of these maps are worth a shit. Besides, would you rather be chewed out for poor map reading or prayed over for being a fool?"

"Call me a fool, just don't pray over me! Let's do it—and Joe, thanks for the education. Number One."

Operation Smoke was undeniably successful. Definitely boring. No complaint about the two hour rest, but I was stressed between the two imperatives burned into my brain in O.C.S. First, the absolute necessity to accomplish the assigned mission at any cost, even the loss of your men. Second, the charge to take extraordinary care protecting the men in your command.

I didn't know if Weiman had done it right, but he had given me a righteous example of how it was done in the 'Nam. Question was, What do you do when you can't meet both imperatives?

We sat, sweating in the heat while squadrons of mosquitoes dive bombed us. Problem Solving Central kept raising questions. Was it right to ignore the mission in order to protect the men? Was it right to foolishly endanger men for a questionable mission? After all, everybody knew Charlie was in the area.

In any event, I was grateful for my physical fitness from my days as an athlete. Patrolling in this heat and the weight of leadership were going to take a toll.

It was damned hot! The men were safe! It wasn't worth the effort to continue contemplating mission outcomes. I let it go and focused the "Hey-we're-breathing-let's-have-some-fun" part of my brain on Vanessa, my favorite, voluptuous, redheaded, go-go girl, ex-lady love. The dive bombers became less noticeable.

We returned to Battalion NDP in the last light of day. I found Captain Chapman, a stocky outdoor type, and reported in. He returned my salute with a minimal wave. "Easy on the saluting in the bush, Lieutenant. No need to help Charlie figure out who should be Number One on his sniper's hit list."

"Sorry, Sir. I'm ready for briefing at your convenience."

"Let's get some chow for now. Relax a bit. We can talk later."

"Suits. Where do they hide the chow line in this mickey mouse outfit?"

The Captain chuckled and waved his arm, "Right this way. At least tonight you won't have to settle for Ham and Mother Fuckers."

I laughed and followed him. Ham and Lima Beans was not my favorite meal when made with good ham and fresh beans. Korean War surplus c-rations of that menu bore no resemblance to edible food and did terrible things to your internal plumbing. Only a rare "grunt" would ever try them twice.

After supper I settled down to wait behind an M-60 machine gun emplacement to watch the activities in the NDP. There were no lights. Movement was kept to a minimum. We knew our presence was no secret to Victor Charles, the call sign for Viet Cong, also used for North Vietnam Regulars, shortened to Charlie. Quiet conversations whispered all around me. I contemplated what was rapidly becoming the central consideration of my existence. How could I do my duty, complete my assigned missions, protect my men, survive it all, and remain sane?

I had ample time for meditation. After speaking with the Colonel, Chapman detoured to an on-going crap game. Around 0100 the next morning, he tapped my shoulder to wake me.

"Breakfast is at first light. 0730. We'll be hopping the choppers on a company mission to try to find Charlie in an area freshly rearranged by the Rome plows. It promises to be a full day. Second Platoon, Mike, yours, will be second in the formation behind Third, November. First, Lima, will bring up the rear. I'll be with you and you can meet your men while they work. Get some rest. Daylight will be here soon."

"Yes Sir," I managed. Sleep did not return easily.

****

Chapter 2 ~ Learning to Dance

From five thousand feet in the air it looked like Lincoln Logs dumped over a long stretch of ground. As the choppers touched down in an adjacent area of open ground, the Lincoln Logs turned out to be trees up to three feet in diameter. The Rome plows had left them scattered like so many "tiny twigs." Traversing them to look for Charlie would not be an easy task.

We formed up quickly in Captain Chapman's designated formation and moved straight into that jumbled mess. Progress was slow. Climbing up, over, and around such tangled trees is back breaking work. The day grew hotter. There was no conversation, except for communications necessary to control the operation. Even so, we did not move quietly. It is nearly impossible to move a company of men quietly through the woods. This is true even with only ninety-three men, half strength as we were. To do it over the terrain we trekked was inconceivable. This meant that Charlie could hear us coming and set an ambush at a time and place of his choosing. Knowing this caused a moderate amount of tension among the troops, roughly about the same as when the Captain of the Execution Squad says "Ready. Aim...."

The fact is, that Victor Charles usually knew we were coming. More often than not, he chose the location and time for engagement. Of greater concern than the particularly difficult terrain on this day, was the knowledge that Charlie was gearing up for another major offensive.

Moving through the broken and mangled trees reminded me of Edgar Rice Burroughs description of Tarzan moving through the "middle terrace" of the jungle trees, constantly twisting and turning to find the easiest path. The big difference being that Tarzan made good time. Of course, he wasn't carrying eighty-plus pounds of ammunition, water, food, and other gear on his back.

At 1000 hours the Captain called for a fifteen minute break in place. I found a decent seat on a two foot diameter log, took several swallows of warm, wonderful just because it was wet, water. I turned to my Platoon Sergeant.

"Hey, Sergeant Gilvey, we have a few minutes to chat, give me a run down on my troops. Start with yourself."

Gilvey shrugged, took a swallow, capped his canteen, settled his slender six foot frame in, and said, "Well, LT, unlike most of these hardasses, I'm regular army. I'll have seventeen years in towards my twenty at the end of this tour. I take pride in doing the toughest job in the world and doing it well. But—I plan to call it a day at twenty, mostly because this so-called war sucks the big one, as you'll find out. So I think I'll be a retired man at thirty-eight and become a famous fisherman. I do love to pull in those bass."

"Sounds like a noble goal to me, Sarge," I responded.

"Yeah!" he grinned. "The good news, LT, most of these kids are draftees and rotten at regular army spit and polish, but they are the godammest, fucking, most beautiful combat troops you'll ever find!"

"For example, First Squad Leader, Sergeant Leon Combs. Leon is just an Ohio farmboy. Still has wet cow-shit behind his ears. Not particularly educated, ugly as sin, but he has got three things going for him...."

"They are?" I took the bait.

"Well, first he's a good leader. Takes care of his people, they listen to him, and they perform for him."

"Sounds good to me."

"Yeah! He's also the best combat shooter in the battalion, with twelve personal kills. That is Charlie definitely expired, and Leon is clearly the only one stamped his expiration ticket. He's probably helped stamp another hundred and fifty."

I just stared at Gilvey for a minute while I tried to remember how to make my mouth work. Finally, I said, "Okay. What's the third thing?"

Gilvey gave the broadest grin, "He—is—the—world's—best...."

"Yes," I encouraged.

"Cocksman!"

"Noooo!" I yelped. "Are you feeding me some mickey mouse BS, Sarge?"

"Swear to God. Solemn truth, LT. If poontang is there, he nails it. If it ain't there, he finds it. A truly amazing talent."

"I'll say." I managed. "And useful too."

The Captain gave the order to move out. Conversation ended. We resumed the day's grinding work.

We had been moving for half an hour when the Captain stopped and motioned me forward. "This is just about the worst terrain you'll ever have to deal with. I wanted to point out..."

KRACK! KRACK!

The unmistakable cough of AK-47 rounds – everyone dove for cover. Everyone that is, except Chapman and me. I guessed he was crazy.

Chapman grabbed his radio and yelled into it, " November Six, This is your Six! What is the situation? Dammit, Six what have you got?"

I yelled at Gilvey, "Sergeant, get first squad set on the left flank! Have Leon cover the right flank with his squad!"

Gilvey responded, "Roger that! Leon, your boys on right flank! The rest of you yahoos cover the left! Do it now!"

I pivoted back towards Chapman, still yelling into the radio, "C'mon Kelly, I need a sitrep, and I mean now!" He looked all around his immediate vicinity, searching for the best spot to move and gain command of the action.

Finally, Lt. Kelly responded, "Six, this is November 6. A couple of sniper rounds. No harm, no foul. We're 'scoping the bush to try to find the little gook!"

"Roger," Chapman responded in clipped tones. "Keep looking and keep me informed. No chasing unless I clear it. You got that?"

I stepped to my left and hopped up on a tree which gave me a better view of the area to the right flank. Chapman glanced at me, turned to his radio operator, handed him the mike, and said "Get me a sitrep from first platoon, but don't tie up the net." He turned back to me.

"Good job for a Fucking New Guy. Questions. Think you're fucking invincible? Why didn't you duck for cover?"

"Well Sir, I figure if you hear the bullet it's already missed you. Besides, they weren't shooting at me, and—Why didn't you duck?"

"They weren't shooting at you! How the hell do you figure that, Lieutenant?"

"By the sound. I could—I just knew the rounds weren't aimed at me, so I didn't think I should waste time worrying about them."

"Lieutenant. That's one hell of a valuable talent. How long have you known you could tell the path of a bullet by the sound? I mean geez...." Chapman queried.

I thought for a moment, gave a sheepish grin, "Newly discovered actually. But—I sorta' like it."

Chapman said nothing and for a moment just stared at me. He shook his head and spoke low to himself, "Great, one as dinkydau as me."

"Second question. You did well setting your platoon for a fight. How did you decide to place your closest squad to left flank and your furthest to the right?"

I paused as I tried to think why I had made those choices. I looked Chapman square in the eye, "The rounds came from the right, so Charlie was there for sure. Leon is my best combat shooter. I wanted him covering the certain side."

"Damn!" Chapman spit out "You just might make it through this shit and carry your men with you." He turned to his radio and called for updates.

I felt good for a moment, then I wondered if it would be okay to drop my pants and wipe the fear off my rear. At least I didn't freeze.

After about fifteen minutes, it appeared there would be no further attack. The Captain issued the order to move out. We took about three steps and the Captain's radio operator tapped Chapman on the shoulder, "Colonels on the battalion freq., Captain."

The Captain called a halt, talked to the Colonel for five minutes, switched to the company frequency on the radio and issued orders to change the direction and pace of the march. We were to take a forced march on our new course for approximately seven hundred meters to a relatively flat open area. The choppers would pick us up and drop us as an interdiction force for C Company, which had encountered a large enemy force and apparently had them on the run.

Chapman turned to me, winked and said, "A real pisser. Charlie's dancing and we've got thirty minutes to make rendezvous. Knowing C Company, they've encountered two water buffalo and an old mama-san selling Pepsi."

I grinned. "Seems like an especially mickey mouse way to run a war."

Thirty five minutes later we hopped aboard choppers for our ride to the dance.

This particular dance played out like a tango of one. Intense, hot, and sweaty, but ultimately unsatisfactory. As Chapman put it, "When Charlie don't want to be found, he is amazingly good at being scarce."

We moved to our assigned position of interdiction and established an "L" shaped ambush. We waited. We sweated. We waited. We ate our "c-rats." We waited.

About an hour before dark, Chapman suggested, "Gather your platoon and formally introduce yourself to them. Now's as good a time as you'll get."

"Sergeant Gilvey," I said, "Let's circle the braves around that tree," I pointed, "and have us a little pow-wow."

Gilvey moved the platoon to the designated area. I tried to organize my thoughts. I was anxious to hit the right note of capable leadership despite my inexperience.

"Okay guys, I'll keep this short and to the point. I am your new Platoon Leader. The emphasis is on leader. I do not know everything there is to know about the world. That is Sergeant Gilvey's job. He is good at it. I lead."

A few friendly chuckles from the crowd made me think I was off to a good start. "I've been well trained to lead. I assure you, I will provide the maximum opportunity to accomplish the mission and live to tell about it.

"Understand me! The mission comes first. If it means we all die—well, I'll be there with you. I'll help process your papers at the pearly gates, a place I am not in a particular hurry to reach."

I surveyed their faces and thought, God forbid any of you dying under my command!

"Your job is, first, follow my directions on faith until you've had time to choose to follow them because you believe I know what I'm doing. Second, you need to train me. I know a lot about leadership but damn little about Viet Nam and combat here. If you see me making a mistake that will compromise the platoon's safety, speak up. I may override your concerns, but I need to hear them.

"Let me be quite clear. If something goes badly and, after the fact, any of you says, I could have told you so, I will be angry. Trust me. You do not want me angry at you."

I paused and looked into each man's face.

"One final note on this topic. If I am making a mistake, I don't care how you address me in bringing it to my attention. You may say, 'Sir', 'Lieutenant', 'LT', or 'Yo Asshole' or 'Hey Shithead'. I do not care and will not hold that against you. Silence I will most definitely hold against you.

"Does anyone have any questions?"

"Yeah, LT, I do," from a short, small boned troop to my left, whom I recognized as our Platoon Medic. Specialist Fifth Class, Jaime Flores, was of Mexican heritage and an actor by trade. That explained the neatly trimmed moustache he sported. His major claim to fame was he had been runner up for the part of Elvis Presley's young Mexican friend in "Fun In Acapulco." As with all medics he was addressed simply as "Doc."

"Yeah, Doc. What can I tell you?"

"Well, LT," Doc offered, " I was just wondering. How does one get transferred out of this mickey mouse war?"

Struggling not to completely crack up, I snorted, " I don't know Doc. But, if I find out, I'll share it with you first."

I waited a moment for the laughter to subside and asked, "Anyone else?"

A hand raised. I pointed to Spec.4 Collins, a black man. "Okay, what can I tell you?"

"Sir—This may be out of line. It's not about here in 'Nam. At least not directly, but—well, you were still in the World when it happened. The brothers would like it if you could share any information about Martin Luther King and—Memphis."

The unexpected direction of the question caused me to pause. I remembered how I had reacted with disbelief the night it happened. I steeled myself, knowing that the answer I gave was important. Both to this man and to my ability to lead this platoon.

"There isn't a lot of information I can give you. The night before I left for the coast for my flight over here, some asshole shot and killed Dr. King. I don't know much more.

"For what it's worth. I think it was a terrible thing. Dr. King was striving for the freedoms that we are over here fighting for. I believe the repercussions over his death are going to be serious. Not much else I can say."

"Thank you, Sir," the private nodded and raised a clenched fist in a half salute.

I looked around the platoon for a moment, "Okay. If there are no other questions, return to your positions. Stay sharp, and let's make it through the night. Sergeant Gilvey, when the men are settled, I'd like to talk to you for a few minutes."

"Yes Sir. Okay back to your positions. Let's do it." Gilvey moved with the men.

I pondered that last question, searching it for potential impacts on leading the platoon. Problem Solving Central confirmed, This is a sensitive area that needs attention. Six of the twenty-five men in the platoon are black.

Shortly, Gilvey returned. I said, "Let's talk some more about the guys, short descriptions, fill in the details later."

"Okay. LT." Gilvey sat down next to me with his back to the tree. "Your other squad leader is Spec. 4 Johnson. He's okay but not a bright light, as they say. He's short. About a month left. I have my eye on Spec. 4 King as a possible replacement."

"Tell me about him."

"Fat Michael, we call him. Man gets more care packages from Mom than any three other guys. He shares though. The guys like him, and he usually shows good sense. He's a blooper guy, and he's damn good with that single shot. I've seen him lay one on target, have one in the air, and one leaving the barrel at the same time."

"Not too shabby," I grinned.

"Next, there's our problem child, George."

"Always at least one," I sighed. "What's his story?"

"We call him Crazy George. With good reason. He's a real combat asset, but his mind is totally fucked. Had a good friend buy the farm. Extended an extra six months so he could go back to the world for the funeral. Came back to kill VC. Boo koo dinkydau, particularly in base camp. A stone cold killer when the brown stuff hits the rotating oscillator, though.

"Just don't ever put him out on flank. Last time I did that, we changed direction, he didn't. Got about a klick out. Claims he had lunch with a gook family and caught up with us a half klick from our destination, which hadn't changed. Lucky for him or he'd still be out wandering the boonies. 'Crazy' is not merely a nickname with that boy."

"Is he an asset or a liability?"

"At this point, still an asset. Hell, he has two purple hearts and a Bronze Star. Should have more, but he keeps pissing the brass off. That's why he's still a private. He will bear watching as his DEROS gets close though. He could crack and become a real liability in a hurry."

"When does his Freedom Bird fly?"

"Late June. About two months I think."

"Thanks, Sarge. We'll keep an eye on him. Time for a couple more before we join the troops?"

"Well then, I should tell you about our favorite guy. Coyote." Gilvey's voice suggested something interesting was coming.

"Coyote?" I raised my eyebrows.

"Coyote. As in the Roadrunner and . . ." Gilvey chuckled. "When you get a close look at him, you will notice a distinct resemblance between Private Flynn and that famous carnivore. He also always looks hungry, but we like him for a different reason."

"And that would be?"

"He can take point and you can rest quite assured that he will never – not ever, walk the platoon into an ambush. He is absolutely uncanny about it!" Gilvey gushed.

He went on. "The strange thing is he walks through the woods as if he were strolling down a garden path at home. Rifle slung, hands in his pocket, sometimes humming to himself. You want to yell at him and straighten him out before he hurts himself. But, he never fails. He'll walk along. Not a care in the world, then his back will go stiff. He'll stop. Sniff the air. Make a funny circular motion with his head and drop back to advise you. Pay attention. He is always right. Charlie is always there or was recently, like in the past hour. He is phenomenal."

"Whoa, Sarge. If he's that good I love him already."

"He is, Sir. Believe me on this one."

"Great! Okay, one more."

"That would be private Moyer. One ass-kicker with his sixty. I've never seen anyone else, particularly a small man like Moyer that can take a twenty-six pound machine gun in one hand, hold the belt in the other and hit anything he can see. Valuable man in a fire fight for sure. One thing. He does have a tendency to use up ammo."

"A serious tendency?"

"Let's put it this way. If you look in the dictionary under 'fire control,' you won't find his picture."

"Right. So far it all sounds as good as you advertised, Sarge. I hope I can live up to them."

"I would say you've made a good start, Sir. I'm ready to follow your lead," Gilvey responded.

"Good by me, Sergeant. Let's rejoin the men," I replied with a shake of my head.

Night in 'Nam doesn't particularly sneak up on you, but the phrase 'descends like a dive bomber set to ruin your day' is not too harsh a description of how suddenly it arrives. A few minutes later, I found myself trying to settle into my position in total blackness. The platoon kept watch and slept in shifts. Given the adrenaline in my body from the day's excitement, the newness of the experience, and the burden of command, I did not anticipate getting much sleep. Youth and genuine tiredness gave the lie to that expectation. A couple of hours later, I drifted nicely in comfortable sleep.

WHOOM!

The explosion rocked my world, ripped my mind, and would have caused a highly embarrassing moment in defecation if my bowels had not chosen to lock rather than expel. I struggled awake with an awful copper, blood taste in my mouth, fighting fear to gain control and do my job,

"What the Hell!" I managed.

My radio man, private Pete Weiler, lying next to me, grabbed my arm and spoke quietly, "First Platoon triggered. They popped a couple of claymores on some 'tourists'. Everything is cool for the moment."

"Thanks," I whispered. "I trust everyone is awake and alert at this point?"

"I reckon!" he chuckled. A good radio man is a treasure beyond price, to be sure.

Twenty tense minutes later, Captain Chapman passed down an "All clear, but keep full alert for the next hour." No sleep for the wicked and tired.

A claymore mine features a curved plastic case, a pound of C-4 plastique explosive and a sheet of seven hundred metal pellets that disperse in a twenty meter wide, forty meter out pattern. It is triggered remotely by a hand held magnetic generator. The magneto sometimes holds a charge like a battery, so care is necessary in setting the mines out first and then attaching the magneto. A claymore is definitely deadly if you get caught in its kill zone.

Our hope was that two dead bodies would be lying in that kill zone the next morning. Only a fool checks a kill zone in the dark. The not yet dead can make you very dead in the dark. Daylight revealed two blood trails but no bodies.

"Not unusual, LT," advised Gilvey. "Charlie is an excellent housekeeper when it comes to leaving dead comrades on the battlefield. I think the VC are as dedicated as us to leaving no one behind. Anyway, they're good at making body counts a problem."

Chapman was calling in a body count of two, based on the two blood trails, as I approached for the briefing on the day's mission.

He finished his report, flipped the handset to his R.T.O., turned to me, frowned and said, "Can't think of anything more asinine than fuckin' body count. I hate it! But hey, it don't mean nothin'." He sighed, and continued, "Got to keep the man happy though, for all God's little children in the field."

"Mickey mouse crap, for sure." I suggested. "At least none of our bodies are being counted."

Chapman grinned, "Right with that, Lieutenant. Right with that."

The day's mission, was basic search and destroy, following a prescribed route, to search out the enemy and then destroy him in place. A great concept, if the other guy cooperates in being found. Cooperation was not one of Charlie's endearing qualities, but we knew a build up for an offensive was going on. We had hopes for the day.

Chapman reversed the order of march from the previous day, with Lieutenant John Hall's First Platoon on point, Third Platoon bringing up the rear and Second platoon in the middle. Chapman said to me, "I'll bust your cherry on point tomorrow. Pay particular attention to today's routines."

I took his advice and tried to absorb everything that was going on. We were operating in terrain that was a combination of jungle and rice paddies. The technique for moving in jungle is to stay closer together and move slowly to allow the optimum chance to detect enemy hiding places from high in the trees to under the ground and lots of places in between.

Crossing rice paddies requires a more spread out formation to minimize the exposure of large groups to a single explosion or burst of gunfire. We were in the dry season when many of the paddies held no water. Baked dry by the tropical sun, they were as hard as concrete and no fun to walk across in the heat with their uneven surfaces.

We searched extensively that day but did not get to do any destroying. This pretty much left us irritated. We set a straight line ambush along a trail for the night. Our right flank and rear was protected by heavy thickets. Our left flank bordered a rice paddy.

Chapman placed my platoon next to the paddy with first platoon in the middle and third on the other end. He gave strict instructions "Let tourists reach the center of the kill zone before opening fire." We settled in for the night.

At about 0300, five VC came down the path. As planned, they were allowed to walk into the center of the kill zone. The third man was directly in front of Lt. Hall when he triggered his claymore.

WHOOMP!

Followed instantly by, WHOOMP! WHOOMP!

Claymores to the left and right of the first were detonated. At the same time one machine gunner and half a dozen riflemen raked the kill zone. The red tracers formed intersecting patterns where five men had been standing only moments earlier. Amidst the thunder, loud piercing screams alternated with shouted Vietnamese.

The shooting lasted for an eternity—actually less than thirty seconds, and Hall was shouting, "Cease fire! Hold your fire! Dammit! Cease fire!"

Fire control in a fire fight may be the most difficult task ever devised. Imagine herding fifty heavily armed cats who are really pissed off. Fire control is harder, but, it's an absolute necessity for survival in the long term. The firing slowed, then stopped. The cordite smell fouled the air while smoke and dust reduced visibility. Hall shouted "Fresh magazines in your weapons! Look sharp. Any movement or noise, nail it!"

The dust settled. I realized the noise I was hearing was only a light ringing in my ears from the explosions. It seemed okay to breath again. I started to inhale and someone yelled "Fire in the hole!" Moments later, two grenades exploded on the path. Recalling, after half a minute, that I'd been inhaling I gave a light snort and completed the breath.

The dust settled again and silence surrounded us once more.

There it is. War. Men die. Surprisingly, little feeling attached to that thought.

I completed the remaining hours of darkness in tense awareness, with all of my senses supercharged. Sleep was not an option. There was no further enemy activity and dawn rapidly expanded our ability to see into the kill zone. This time, there were three bodies on the ground. Amazingly, blood trails showed where two of the VC had crawled away to perhaps live and fight another day, or at least die out of sight of the enemy.

I thought, with a mixture of disgust and respect, Damn, the little bastards are pretty hard to kill!

While first platoon searched the bodies for weapons and strategic information such as maps, I called Gilvey over to discuss the order of march for the day.

"I think sniper contact is likely, if not a full scale fire fight. How do you see it?"

"Possible, possible," he responded. "Those KIA's buddies would undoubtedly like some payback, and there's probably enough of us to discourage a straight fight."

"I was thinking Coyote on point, George on drag, followed by compass. Who've we got for that?

"Fat Michael can handle it."

"Okay I'll take fourth position with Leon's squad up front. I would like you to cover the rear this trip."

"Sounds like a plan. A good plan." Gilvey nodded.

Thirty minutes later, after being briefed on the route by Chapman, I washed down a c-rat candy bar with several swallows of water and called my platoon to alert. "Okay. Let's get ready to roll, and guys—we stung Charlie's butt last night so he'll want some payback. Remember, payback is a Mutha! Stay sharp!"

On a signal from Chapman we started moving out into the rice paddy. I gave Fat Michael a three meter head start and moved out. I was focused, not stressed or intensely excited. I was finally doing the job for which I had trained. It felt good. I spent the next hour constantly scanning the terrain for potential danger areas, passing frequent reminders down the line to watch spacing, and reminding myself that Coyote was supposed to be nonchalant. That nonchalant was in fact good—not an easy sale, but I managed.

Chapman called a short break and directed me to traverse left down a short dike to the long one parallel to the one we were on. In 'Nam all of our maps were in grids of one thousand meters, usually referred to as a klick. He tapped his map, "When you hit the woods about a half klick down, establish a secure perimeter and we'll take a break."

"Roger that!"

We had gone a hundred meters when I saw Coyote stop. His back stiffened and his head began to roll. "Heads up people!" I hollered.

KRACK! KRACK!

Almost on cue, the rounds whistled by—close. I pivoted left, caught a glimpse of the second flash, I pointed and yelled, "Fat Michael, ten o'clock, the palm trees about four hundred meters! Drop some rounds on them!"

Coyote and George were already laying out fire. Leon had his squad down and firing. I looked further back. Gilvey had his people covering right. I slipped down to one knee and reached out my left hand. Weiler slapped the radio mike into it. "Six, this is Mike Six. We have two rounds from the tree line, no damage at this point and we are responding!"

"Roger, keep 'em under control, Six!" Chapman shot back, as the first of Fat Michael's M-79 rounds landed right on target, followed by his second to the left and third to the right bracketing the area nicely.

"Cease fire! Cease Fire! Let's see what we've got!" I shouted. The firing stopped Abruptly, An unexpected silence hung with the smoke in the air. Damn! My guys are really good.

"Fresh magazines everyone!" I spoke loud enough to be heard but didn't shout. "Anyone sees anything, report!" It remained quiet. I scanned the area where we had directed our attack. It seemed to me that if Charlie was bugging out from there, he would take a line from his original site slightly left and back to what appeared to be a small ravine.

"Michael, can your blooper reach that depressed area?"

"He looked where I pointed and gave a Cheshire cat smile, "Extreme range! But yeah I can."

"Prepare three and wait for my command." I keyed the mike. "Six, this is Mike Six. I think Charlie is di di-ing. How about a small going away present?"

Chapman came back, "Sounds good, but don't waste too much ammo."

"Michael, whenever you're ready..."

THUMP ...THUMP ...THUMP.

WHOOMP! ...WHOOMP! ...WHOOMP!

"Right on target, Michael. Nice shooting." I keyed the mike, "Six, This is Mike Six. We've waved goodbye. What's your pleasure next?'

As I waited for Chapman's response, I was exalted, as if I were a son of Mars the God of War. Invincible and really, really good at war! I'd been ready, reacted well and my platoon was superb! More! I just wanted more! Quietly, in the back of the chapel, a voice softly whispered, But there is a price. There must always be a price.

With so much adrenalin flowing through me that tiny voice floated away like grains of rice in the wind. I felt good!

Chapman's voice grounded me instantly, "Pick it up where we left off. Same course, same plan. Stay alert."

"Roger, out." I waved my arm at the men behind me, "Move out. Stay sharp! Coyote, you've got the lead. Same track. Let's move."

The adrenalin keyed us all up for a while, but slowly the heat of the day and the lack of any further contact brought us down. We were alert but under control, I still felt good but it was more a lack of feeling bad than any kind of rush. I realized that what the veterans had to say about combat was on target. Combat consists of extended periods of severe boredom punctuated by brief, exhilarating moments of fearful insanity.

We moved out of the rice paddy into the jungle, changed formation and continued for several hours moving slowly but steadily on course. We found enemy sign twice, but Coyote never alerted and we had no contact with Charlie. Chapman called a break for lunch. I moved Coyote and Fat Michael out about thirty meters to the front in a listening post position for advance warning of any approaching VC. I set the rest of the platoon in defensive positions covering both flanks. We all broke out our c-rats.

I had just started my personal favorite meal among the c-rats – beans and franks – when Chapman came up and sat next to me. I briefly outlined how my platoon was set.

He nodded, "That's fine Lieutenant. Your guys did good work this morning."

"Thank you, Sir."

"I'm curious. How close to you did your radar place those rounds?"

I looked at the Captain for a moment before responding, wondering what he was after. "Damn close, Sir. I think they were trying for me—me or my R.T.O."

"Yet you still didn't duck. Care to tell me why?"

I paused and reflected on my reactions. "Three reasons. First, they had already missed. Second, I needed to stay up to control the platoon and do my job."

"Okay. And third?"

I smirked, "The bastards pissed me off and I didn't feel like backing off."

"Lieutenant, you remind me of a shorter version of me." He chuckled. "A friendly word of advice. Do what you have to in order to get the job done, but remember there is no cowardice or lack of honor in ducking. Not ducking is sometimes a fool's game. I hope you aren't a fool."

"Message received, Sir. I don't think I'm a fool."

"Me neither, son. We'll be staying on the same course for about half a klick when we pick up again. Any questions?"

"Nope. Same course, half a klick. Can do."

"One other thing."

"Yes, Sir?"

"If you aren't going to duck, pray that you only get the million dollar wound. You know. The one that sends you home with a purple heart to impress your mom and, if you're lucky, your girlfriend, but doesn't interfere with any major life functions."

"Rog!" I laughed. "Every night. Along with now I lay me down."

The afternoon was long, boring and hot. That evening we set our ambush as a rectangle around an abandoned straw hootch sitting in a small island of trees surrounded by rice paddies. We checked the hootch carefully, with special attention to locating any spider holes or tunnels where Charlie might be hiding. There were none.

My platoon had the west side of the 'bush. The sun was just disappearing below the horizon and the men were setting out their claymores as Sergeant Gilvey walked towards me to report.

WHAM!

The explosion knocked him down on all fours. I staggered back and lost my helmet as my head jerked.

"Shit! What the hell was that?" I managed to gasp.

"One of our claymores blew!" someone yelled. "Out by Coyote!"

My stomach clenched with fear unlike any I had ever experienced. I felt my soul scorched by searing flames. "Noooo!" I shouted as I hurried towards the smoke and dust swirling in the twilight haze. In my heart I could sense Satan sharpening the blade he would use to torture me for all of eternity. Was one of my men dead?

As I reached the edge of the trees, a form materialized out of the mist. "Whoohee! Ol' Coyote almost bought that one! He did indeed! Yessir! But that bastard Roadrunner better watch out. Coyote's still with us. Yes he is!"

"Coyote, you son of a bitch! What the hell happened?" I raved as I ran up to him and grabbed his arm.

He grinned at me with the expression of a man who realized he was still alive with absolutely no justification for that fact. "Don't rightly know, Sir. I set my claymore, put the fuse in and started back, and...."

"Did you have your magneto connected to the other end? You know not to do that. Damn it! You know that." I interrupted sharply. "I mean—you know that."

"No Sir, I—don't know. I think so—That is, I—just—I...." His face turned a pallid yellow as the fear that sliced into his spine gleamed from his eyes to mine.

"Okay, man. It's really okay." I gripped his shoulders pulling him close. "Coyote!" using my best command voice, "Listen to me. It don't mean nothin'! It don't mean nothin'! You need to say it. It—don't—mean—nothin'."

Like a man grasping for a life preserver he was unsure was there, his eyes gained focus, "Right. Yeah right! It don't mean nothin'. It don't mean nothin'. It don't mean nothin'!"

I turned my head towards Sergeant Gilvey who had joined us, "Sarge, take him to Doc and get him checked out." He took Coyote's arm and led the shaky warrior off.

My insides were a quivering like I'd been in a wreck, but I thought I appeared calm. I quickly looked for and found the trigger wire for the exploded claymore and followed it to its end. Sure enough, the magneto was attached. Just then my R.T.O. stepped up to me with the mike extended in his hand.

"Captain wants a sitrep yesterday, Sir."

"Right." I keyed the mike, "Six this is Mike Six."

"What the fuck is going on over there Lieutenant?" he snarled. We got contact or what?"

"No Sir. No contact. One of my guys left his magneto attached to his trigger wire. Had enough of a charge to set it off. No serious damage to personnel. Doc is checking him out now. It was close—close."

"Damn it! That ain't gonna' cut it Lieutenant! You hear me! That ain't going to make it." His voice simmered to a low boil.

"Yes Sir. Big roger on that."

"Big roger hell, Lieutenant. You can't be allowing shit like that. Do you understand me?"

Resentment flared inside me, blame heaped on me, and shame threatened to bury my heart. Then I realized Chapman was as upset and scared at losing one of his men as I was. I replied in a firm but quiet voice, "It was as mickey mouse a play as it gets, Sir. And from one of my vets. I guarantee I won't allow it to happen again."

"Okay then." He came back in a voice matched to mine. "Get your men ready for the night. We've still got a 'bush to pull."

We settled in for the night, but sleep did not visit me. In the dark, I could clearly see Coyote's eyes aflame with fear. That little voice kept saying, There is a price. I had no faith I could pay the price of having a dead man's blood—my man's blood—on my soul.

Around 0200, word quietly passed around the perimeter that some VC were approaching from the east. Minutes later the 'bush triggered with two claymores and a burst of M-60 fire. Quickly, quiet returned. I felt no adrenalin rush, just a calm alertness, prepared to do my job. It stayed silent on my side.

The next morning, no bodies. We reported a body count of two and moved out.

Chapman had returned to his regular rotation of platoons, so Third had the lead, followed by First, and I covered the rear with Second. The day promised to be sweltering and I did not feel like any son of the god of war. I was grateful to pull rear instead of point. As I moved my tired body, I suspected many shared my non-godlike feeling.

The day wore on. The heat hammered down growing worse with each hour. Charlie didn't seem to be interested in dancing. Maintaining focus grew progressively more difficult. At 1130 Chapman called a halt for lunch and passed the word there would be no re-supply chopper. We would make do. After lunch our route would go by a stream where we could refill our canteens. We were to make sure everyone used iodine tablets to purify the water. We wanted no cases of the quick step.

I also decided to follow the advice of veterans and pitch my underwear. They advised against wearing same since it was always damp from sweat, rain or wading in water. It chafed, irritated and added discomfort to an otherwise already intolerable situation. Mine sailed into the bush, not to be replaced until I returned to the 'World'.

As I tried to swallow the boned chicken c-rat with a good case of cotton mouth, I felt more abused than I had in recent memory. Iodine tablets will kill just about every nasty little bug you could find in water. The trouble was they tasted like—well, iodine

As we prepared to move out, Fat Michael came to me and extended his hand with a small rectangular object. "Here, LT, this will help the taste. They're called Fizzies. My Mom sends them to me. Use two per canteen. All I've got right now is Root Beer flavor, but that's not too bad. It's a damn sight better than the io' swill"

'Thanks, Michael. I'll give them a try." I looked at what resembled a package of brown colored alka seltzer tablets. I grinned, "Let's get ready to move."

The morning sun heated the day quickly. It seemed that each day grew hotter than the last. I wondered if we could get the war called because of heat once the temperature reached one-fifty or so. I figured the Brass probably would not be that nice, but if temperatures reached that high, which seemed entirely possible, everybody on both sides would likely keel over and die, so it wouldn't matter anyway.

We reached the stream without any incidents. Chapman set us in a defensive perimeter about a hundred meters from the stream. Each platoon assigned three men to gather all of the canteens and take them to be filled at the stream. Two men would actually fill the canteens while one stood guard. The entire operation took about forty-five minutes. I dropped the iodine tablets in, followed by two fizzies each for both canteens. I gave them a good shaking for half a minute each and proceeded to taste the experiment of the day.

I took a short swig. After a moment I chugged a couple of good swallows. Mental note to self—next letter to Mom, please send Boo Koo fizzies. Preferred flavor, Root Beer. It was not the greatest taste but it definitely masked the io' and really wasn't bad. Second mental note to self—pay attention to Fat Michael's leadership abilities. He's already demonstrated skill with his blooper, and an ability to stay functional in a fire fight. His gesture with the fizzies came across as respectful not sucking up. Sergeant Gilvey's assessment on his suitability as a squad leader seemed to be on target.

As we resumed the patrol, Chapman passed the word. Change course toward the village of Thu Doc, about ten miles outside Saigon. The Brass predicted an enemy build up and continued patrols and ambushes as interdiction actions were directed. The news surprised no one. But, the day after day pace of search and destroy all day and ambush all night, wore on everyone.

There was no visible slacking in running the patrol or the alertness of the men. If anything, the tension was evident in the studied intensity of the men. Any lightness in their attitudes was being replaced with a hard willed determination to do the job right, survive it and help your buddies to survive it. Concern for anything else, comfort, rest, safety, fled from survival; the unforgiving necessity.

We sweated and moved. No unnecessary words. Time became unrecognized for lack of passage. The compulsion of survival continued to grow as our only imperative. We plodded on. Hours dragged by somehow.

Around 1600 we stopped for a short break. "Mike Six this is your Six."

Chapman's voice startled me.

Disgruntled, I keyed my mike, "Six this is Mike Six. What's coming down next?"

"We have a flooded rice paddy to cross. The wires on the other side are an ARVN compound. Keep a close watch to our rear as you come out. Just because we're near Marvin the ARVN is no guarantee that Charles won't light us up while we're exposed."

"Roger. Copy. Eyes peeled on our exposed butts," I responded with a chuckle.

"The ARVN, the Army of the Republic of Vietnam," Gilvey raved. "The South Vietnamese Army, famed world wide for their reluctance to fight and propensity to steal."

We smiled at the nickname. Marvin was not complimentary.

I switched places in file with Sergeant Gilvey, placed Fat Michael and Crazy George in the final trail spots behind me, and moved after the others into the rice paddy. We trudged through the muddy brown water, which rose rapidly to waist level. I struggled with pulling my feet out of the mud each step while following the file and watching to our rear for any signs of Charles' imminent presence, such as AK 47 rounds bouncing off my steel pot.

"Mike Six this is your Six, freeze your men in place and I mean freeze!"

Chapman's voice was strained and brooked no opposition.

"Everybody halt! Freeze! Stop in place! Do not, I repeat, Do not move!" I shouted with maximum lung power. "Six, What's going on?"

"It would seem," Chapman's voice struggled for control, "We are standing in the middle of fucking Marvin's fucking mine field. Pass the word and make sure no one takes as much as one unnecessary step."

"Roger," I complied. We stood as motionless as possible.

Thoughts were crawling all over my brain's gray matter. Most of them were of the nature Move toe—go boom! Not good! I turned the situation over to Problem Solving Central, which promptly came back with, Don't move. It's safer if you don't move. I responded, Thanks so much.

"Everyone listen up and pass the word." I spoke with what I prayed was a strong command voice. "When we start to move, if anyone is unfortunate enough to trigger a mine, do not rush to aid him or get away from him. Mines are laid in patterns designed to get the next fools who move after the first one goes off. If one is triggered, just freeze where you are."

Everyone knew this, but I thought a strong voice of leadership would help the men remain calm. The trouble was, my voice sounded quite squeaky to me. I sincerely hoped it sounded better to my men.

Chapman's voice whisked that concern out of my mind. "Mike Six this is your Six. Marvin is looking for his maps of the mine field. He'll be sending some one out to guide us through shortly. Just keep everyone still until the guide gets here."

"Roger Six. Copy. I think we have the proper motivation to stay very still"

"Just be sure, damn sure, they do." Chapman commanded.

After fifteen minutes of standing still in water to my belly button, with both feet sunk four inches into the mud, I was so tired that I needed to move. I wouldn't really step on a mine, would I?

"Waist deep in the Big Muddy and the great fool says push on." The plaintive tones of Coyote's voice carried nicely over the water and the laughter greeting his minstrel turn was only slightly nervous. I was happy with the moment's relief his silliness brought to the strain on my men.

After thirty minutes, I grew angry. Angry at Marvin, at the freakin' U.S. Army, and most of all angry at God for putting me in such a ridiculous situation. I was prepared to kick God's ass for him if he would just have the guts to show up and get us out of this stupid rice paddy mine field.

"Damn this shit! Let's just swim the hell out of here. Mines be damned!" Crazy George's voice short circuited my anger. I knew I had to take immediate control or we would have a true disaster.

"Everybody stay exactly and precisely where you are!" I shouted in as strong and firm a command voice as I could muster. No one moved. I continued, "Remember, the worst you get from standing in the water is a rash on your ass. Tap dancing on a mine will actually cause a blemish of somewhat greater proportions. Swimming with a hundred pounds of equipment on your back and holding your weapon would be more like sinking. Everyone stay cool." My words brought no laughter, but there was no movement to follow George's suggestion either.

We stood still and waited. A bunch of sitting ducks in the pond, hoping no one would take target practice.

After forty-five minutes, I was in total survival mode. It don't mean nothin' kept crackling through my brain. I felt as if I could crawl along on the surface of the water if I needed to. Problem Solving Central began to calculate how that could be done. I told it to go back to sleep or at least work on something worthwhile, like how shriveled would my johnson be by the time I got out of this watery mess.

My reverie was interrupted by a call from Chapman, "Marvin's found his mine field maps. Someone will be out to walk us out in a few minutes. Make sure everyone follows the line as closely as possible."

"Roger. Past fucking time. Marvin is about as mickey mouse as they come. I hope whoever comes out knows what the markings on the map are for."

"Me too," Chapman laughed nervously.

It took about ten more minutes for Marvin to actually show up. Then for the next thirty minutes I, like everyone else, focused on the man directly in front of me and attempted to step precisely in his footprints, invisible as they were under water. I was extremely frustrated with having no way to make it safer for my men. My concern for them coalesced into a righteous anger at the responsible parties, who ranged from Marvin to the Brass to God. Marvin being nearest, my anger focused there. Visions of massive kabooms and Marvin body parts flying danced in my head. I could do nothing.

The walk out was intense but blessedly uneventful. Tiptoeing thru a minefield, particularly one covered by water, is not recommended for fun, but it will cause you to be unbelievably aware of being alive. Knowing you could be instantly not alive with the next step does that.

A group of ARVN soldiers had gathered by the fence in their compound. As we exited the mine field they pointed at us, commented rapidly in Vietnamese, and laughed loudly at their own witticisms. Our consensus was that between Marvin and Charlie we preferred the company of Charlie; we were allowed to kill Charlie.

To top off a fine afternoon, the rain came. This caused the temperature to drop, which was certainly welcome, but did little for morale. I hated it, in particular, because rain on my glasses really restricted vision. Poor eyesight did not need an extra handicap.

We set ambush for the evening among trees and bushes limiting our ability to stay in close contact, each platoon with the others. An uncomfortable position. Chapman recognized this but was not able to identify a good alternative that would satisfy the Brass. To us, ambush sites were frequently picked for reasons never clear, by Rear Echelon Mother Fuckers with bad maps, worse brains, and a total unwillingness to listen to field troops.

By definition REMFs had no brains, soul, or possibility of reaching heavenly glory. They were not out in the boonies with us. They clearly did not give a damn about us. The feeling was mutual. We felt they were as expendable as they clearly thought we were. Secretly, many of the men hoped to live long enough and be lucky enough to become a REMF. This was supportable in their minds because they knew they would continue to care and would do better by the real troops.

I did not aspire to be a REMF, partly because I was so new to the war, and partly because I was already bonding to the men I was leading and did not want to give that up, ever. It might be I was in Hell, but I damn sure had mighty fine company. I liked that.

Of course, the rain continued all night.

Due to the limitations on contact, Chapman called for situation reports from each platoon every hour. He utilized a brief radio call, which we responded to with two rapid depressions of the mike key to send static representing no contact rather than using a verbal response.

Both my R.T.O. and I failed to notice that no call for a sitrep came at midnight. Thirty minutes later this resulted in disaster...

BRACK, BRACKATA, BRACK!

The sharp staccato of a single M-16 firing on full automatic erupted about fifteen meters to my right, Leon's position.

"What have we got?" I whispered urgently and too loudly to my R.T.O.

"Don't know. Damn radio's dead! Battery must have quit!"

"Get a new one in! Right now!" I hissed. Problem Solving Central tried to panic. It shouted, How the hell do you control your platoon with no communications? I had no time for such discourse. Shut up or work on something useful! I suggested. I leaned to my right and, out loud, I whispered to the private a few meters from me, "Pass the word down the line. My radio's out. Send back word on what we've got."

"Roger!" My stomach churned and my pulse rate soared. I tried to think of positive things that the rifle fire could represent, while my gut insisted, It is going to be bad! Very bad!

"What the hell is with the damned radio?" I snarled in a harsh whisper. "Now! Not next week!"

"Rog, LT! Another thirty seconds."

"Shit on thirty seconds. I've got people dying right now!"

"Working, LT! Here." My R.T.O. slapped the handset into my hand.

Before I could trigger the mike, Chapman's severely strained voice exploded, "Mike Six this is your Six, respond damn you! What the hell's going down over there?"

He paused and I jumped in. "This is Mike Six. Had temporary radio malfunction. Checking on the firing now!"

"Damn it! Make it move. When you didn't respond to repeated sitrep requests. I thought you guys were snoozing and sent a man over to wake you. This isn't good."

"Roger. Got a report coming back up the line. Wait one." I leaned over to hear the returning news. As my man whispered, a piece of my soul froze and turned brittle.

I keyed the mike, "Six, Mike Six. It's bad. Your man walked past us in the dark and Leon opened up on him. He's down, not dead. They're fixing to go get him."

"This is Lima Six" John Hall's voice broke in, "We've got a group of VC headed towards our kill zone. Everybody needs to freeze and stay quiet. Right now!" I admired the calm, firm way that message was presented and responded immediately.

As Chapman confirmed the message, I was already passing the word. "VC patrol on our right flank. Clam up. Get ready to dance. Hold on retrieving our wounded."

My senses heightened. I felt like I could see in the dark through my skin. My hearing could probably pick up WLEC out of Detroit, or Windsor, Ontario, if I tried hard enough. Time, as a familiar entity, ceased again. Seconds became days and minutes weeks, while hours could pass in an eye blink.

BOOM! – BOOM! – BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! – KRACK! KRACK! BRACKATA! KRACK! BRACK! BOOM! KRACK! BRACKATA! BRACK!

The cacophony of a full scale firefight spewed out into the night. The sharp odor of cordite in the air singed my nose. The accompanying light show included our red tracers and their green tracers along with near blinding, multi-colored flashes from claymores and grenades. The large, heavy BOOM was the sound of a blooper firing a shotgun round – imagine a two gauge shell, about equal to five twelve gauge shells, with a magnum powder load.

First Platoon took the bulk of the engagement, but men on the edge of my sector also fired. Several green tracers, like flourescent fireflys, zinged by my position. Much like hearing the sound meant the bullet had missed, seeing the tracers generally worked the same. My relief at bullets which missed me shattered at a sickening scream to my left. I didn't bother with the radio. Charlie definitely knew we were there. "Gilvey, find out who's been hit and get me a report." I shouted. Another piece of my soul died. With amazing ease, I forced my emotions quiet.

I passed the word down the line to get a sitrep on the man Leon had wounded and tried to think of what else to do as I waited.

The shooting died down to a scattered shot here and there. As with most firefights, this one had not lasted long. The cleanup on an ambush at night required an intensified watch for movement or sound of any kind that would indicate someone in the kill zone was still alive and, therefore, a possible danger. If anyone detected movement, he would fire at it. Generally, this meant that sporadic fire would continue for a while after the firefight itself was over.

As I waited for Gilvey's report, the sharp edge of agony began to peel the first layer off my heart. If one of my men is dead, how will I be able to continue? I could not see any possible way that I could keep going. With that thought, a mental paralysis descended on me.

"Mike Six, this is Mike Five." Gilvey's voice over the radio sounded distant, but terribly clear. "It's Johnson. Got hit in his hand. Million dollar wound I think. He's lucky. He was laying on his stomach with his chin on top of both of his hands. When the party started he turned his top hand sideways, pointed his thumb straight up and perched his chin on top of his thumb. That was his position when the bullet hit his hand. He's not in any danger. We can dust him off in the morning."

"Thanks, Sergeant," I whispered. "Keep the guys heads down and stay alert. We may have more visitors this evening." I was mildly surprised to realize that I was breathing again. Problem Solving Central chimed in, You can't be letting these emotions get in the way of doing your job. You'll get someone killed.

Before I even had time to agree with myself, a report came back up the line on Leon's shooting. His man had been dragged back into the perimeter. He was alive and could hold on until daylight for a dust-off. I was relieved enough that I didn't even yell at my guys for disobeying orders. Instead, I took pride knowing they had only done what I would have done in their place. Besides, disobeying orders rarely gets you in too much trouble if what you do succeeds.

I passed the reports on to Chapman and settled in for the rest of the night. I put Problem Solving Central to work on my concern for handling emotions. I silently cursed at the rain drops pelting down. I waited.

About a half an hour before first light, P.S.C. reported. After due consideration the answer is both complex and simple. First, anger seems to be useful, so you can use all the anger you want, just try to keep it pointed at those responsible. However, all the rest of your emotions could cause devastating screw ups. You'll have to do without them.

Oh Wonderful! How do I do that? Just make them go away? I care about my guys and about what we're doing here. How do I just stop having emotions, huh?

Well, it is complex. Don't stop caring for your men and mission; care so much that you shield your emotions from touching any of your decision making mechanisms.

Use concern for your men to not have emotions. Except for anger of course.

Not possible! I can't conceivably do this.

The response, especially from me talking to myself, seemed particularly cold, You can not live with the consequences of not doing it.

The tropical sun both leaves and returns with astounding suddenness. In a few minutes, we went from visibility of a few feet to one hundred percent daylight. I told Sergeant Gilvey to take charge of pulling up the ambush. I took a small detail, including Leon, with our wounded over to Chapman's side where the medevac helicopter would be landing to pick up our men. I was concerned for Leon, He seemed calm at first glance, but a closer look revealed the classic thousand meter stare.

A standard response to horror is to go so deeply into your mind that your eyes seem fixed on something an immeasurable distance away; that stare was labeled a thousand meter stare.

The deadlier version was the ten thousand meter stare. Stare into the blackest hole in the blackest midnight of your worst nightmare. No light, no mercy, no hope. Seeing that state, you knew instantly the man was in serious trouble and you would have a near impossible time controlling his actions. Leon was in a serious hurt, but not at the ten thousand meter level, yet. He'd be all right. He was hurting but would be okay.

"Leon, how you holding up?"

"Okay, LT. It don't mean nothin' – but you know the guy I shot is one lucky soldier."

"Yeah? How do you figure that, Leon? You sliced him up pretty good."

"I know, but his body stiffened at the first rounds and his helmet popped off. I followed it to the ground. Put about nine holes in it. It could have been his head."

"Damn! Jesus does watch out for all his little children I guess."

His tight voice responded "I suppose. I still shot him though."

"I know, Leon. I also know that it wasn't your fault, but you have to hang in there. We all need you here with us. You've saved more lives than you could ever cost us. Rest easy."

The dust-off lifted as I said to Chapman. "Rough night, Sir. I won't foul up like that again."

"No more your fault than Leon's," Chapman said quietly. "Or for that matter, mine. But, in the end, we'll all burn for it."

"Yeah, you, me, Leon, and Mickey Mouse. Everybody but the asshole REMFs who stuck us in this lousy position," I answered.

Chapman gave a mirthless smile. "You seem to have an affinity for the rodent, Lieutenant."

"Well, I sorta figure it's Mickey's war. That thought, somehow, makes it a little easier to live with."

"Lieutenant, you may be more accurate than you imagine. I mean —"

"Six, Lima Six," John Hall's voice over the radio interrupted us.

"What have you got?" Chapman responded.

"Two bodies and twenty pairs of Ho Chi Minh sandals. We blew the little fuckers right out of their shoes. They didn't stay around to pick them up though. No useful intel on the bodies."

"Roger. I'll call in twenty enemy KIA for the sandals. That should make the Colonel happy."

Chapman looked at me and shook his head at the silly numbers game we played with body counts. "Pull your guys in. Get ready to move. Second has the lead. We're going about a klick. The birds are picking us up and taking us to the Battalion NDP for a little stand down. Let your guys know – Oh, and good work last night."

Two hours later we sat in a rice paddy waiting for the choppers. The rain drizzled down in a never ending, but modest, waterfall. It was a most aggravating form of Chinese water torture. I pulled my poncho over me, drew the strings as tight as possible to seal off the head opening, reached into my pack and pulled out my book. Modesty Blaise was always a good way to pass the time.

Modesty had just stripped to the waist as a method of distraction before rushing into a room full of bad guys and killing them – it worked for me. I heard the helicopter rotors. Reluctantly, I put the book in my pack, removed the poncho, and prepared to load up and fly away. This extraction went with no problems. Less than fifteen minutes after picking us up, the choppers set us down just outside the NDP.

I waved Gilvey over as we walked in through the wire. "Get some hot food into the guys and then get all the gear cleaned and ready to go; and replenish all ammo, water and food. We might have to go back out again right away."

Gilvey nodded. "Roger, LT. You may be right. Charlie is getting pretty frisky."

I am a damn good prophet when it comes to predicting bad things.

The date was May 5th. The VC were beginning their second offensive, later known as "Little Tet," to take Saigon. The next eight days would forever ease my fears of going to hell. It gets old and unimpressive after the first visit.

****

Chapter 3 ~ Little Tet

I chowed down a tray of hot food in the time it takes to tell, then ran a cleaning rod through the barrel of my M-16 and wiped the dust off the moving parts. It had not yet been fired, so a major cleaning was unnecessary. I turned my attention to where to carry my knife, a modified ten inch bowie, with near perfect balance. Not regulation, but I could clear brush with it as easily as with a machete and the balance suited my throw. It had been uncomfortable and in my way hanging at my waist. I taped it upside down to the left shoulder harness of my webbing as I had seen some Recon troops carry theirs.

As I finished the last circle with black electrical tape to hold the knife, the call came, "Report to the Captain." I hustled to his location next to the Battalion Field HQ.

Lima Six was about twenty feet ahead of me. I yelled, "John, wait up man."

Hall stopped and grinned. "Hey slowpoke, I don't like waiting, but I'll make an exception this once for the Fucking New Guy LT"

I laughed. "I hope that FNG stuff doesn't last too long. By the way, Numbah One last night. Killed twenty pairs of cut up tire sandals. Old Ho will mourn for days."

Hall chuckled with a modicum of mirth. "Well they had enough blood on them that I bet somebody's truly mourning. I'm just glad it ain't me or mine."

"Know what you mean. I was nearly paralyzed at the thought of one of my guys being dead. I'm really sure Chapman feels that way too. How do you handle that?"

"Don't handle it. Pray I won't ever have to handle it. Don't know how I could."

"Damn! I wasn't sure there were many people that felt like that."

"There ain't. November Six, Kelly for example. Bastard is all spit and polish and no brains. You have to watch for him getting us into trouble. He's walked the company into ambush three times already. Has four KIAs and boo koo wounded. I wouldn't be surprised if his guys fragged him."

"I'll file that. Thanks."

"Welcome. Just remember not to spend too much time next to him in base camp. If the guys frag, the fucking grenades are not too discriminating."

"Right! Captain, Lima and Mike present and accounted for. What's the scoop?"

Chapman looked up from the map he was studying. "Where's Kelly? That idiot is always late. Oh, speak of the devil."

Kelly walked up, Chapman continued. "We have trouble in large doses this time. That yo-yo running C Company has encountered heavy resistance outside Thu Doc, where we just were. After a running fire fight he had the company dig in and then sent a squad straight into the enemy to 'scout them out'. They got massacred."

Chapman's tone darkened. "Ten out, only one back."

"Shit!" Hall exclaimed, "Don't tell me. It wasn't Weiman was it?"

"'Fraid so." Chapman's voice had an inexplicable sadness in it. "He killed one, pulled the body on top of him, and hid that way, playing dead for almost an hour, while fuckin' Charlie searched and mutilated the corpses of his men. When he saw his chance he got up and ran non-stop over eight hundred meters back to the company."

"Absolutely, fucking incredible! Just absolutely, fucking—Man, how is he going to handle that?" My voice wavered as I offered that essentially stupid question. "Nobody could deal with that."

"You don't know the half of it," Hall said. "This is the second time Weiman has played dead to survive on the battle field. The jerk commander over in C Company keeps coming up with ways to get his people killed. Fuuuck."

"Well, if you want military command you have to expect and accept casualties," Kelly offered. "I mean Charlie's C.O. probably knew what he was doing, and—"

"Stop being an asshole, Kelly," Hall exploded. "It was a dumb jerk off thing to do and that's all there is to it."

"Now, wait a minute, I—"

"Can it! Both of you." Chapman's voice turned to steel. "There is nothing to be done about it. It does mean, however, that we are going out to assist C Company. We will be landing about a klick to the rear. Next to the ARVN compound. From there we maneuver to come up on Charlie's east side. First draws point, Second in the middle, and Third brings up the rear. Questions?"
"Yeah!" Hall spit out. "How come we get point. It ain't our turn. I—"

Chapman cut him off. "You've got point because I say so! There will be plenty of opportunity for all of us to be in line to get shot first."

Kelly stood with a blank face, while Hall's contorted as he wrestled with anger at and respect for Chapman.

I spoke first. "Sir, I think we all know what you want. When do we assemble for the lift out?"

"You've got forty-five minutes. Assembly will be where the choppers dropped us when they brought us in. Any other questions?"

"No. – Roger. – Got it."

I grabbed Hall's arm as we walked away. "John, the man wants you on point because he knows what you won't walk us into. Kelly's stupid, and I'm an FNG. You are the right choice."

"Hell. I know that. Incompetence gets rewarded, competence gets shit on."

"Big amen from the choir on that, buddy." With a big alligator smile, I finished, "But I'm ready to follow you and keep your butt covered."

"Damn!" countered Hall. "Well if that's the best I can get from you, it will have to do for now. But don't think you'll hide behind that label long. Some guys are never FNG. I think the label is not one for you."

"Thanks—I think. See you on the firing line."

I walked to my platoon sergeant. "Sergeant Gilvey, get the men together. Make sure they have boo koo ammo and water. We're going back in. Do you think Fat Michael is ready to take over the squad?"

Gilvey shrugged, "Know a better time to find out, LT?"

"Guess not. Let's do it. We've got second position. All the ammo and water they can handle. Right?"

An hour later we hopped from the choppers into the rice paddy and formed up quickly to move and assist C Company. The temperature rose boo koo fast. The day promised to be super hot in more ways than one. The 116 degrees, acted like a jack-hammer on the tension anvil. Within half a klick four men, one mine, went down from the heat.

We waited while the dust-off for C Company wounded came out. Chapman was not happy, but nothing could be done. The choppers lifted. I thought we'd all prefer to be on them.

"Mike Six, this is your Six," Chapman's sweat strained voice echoed from the radio. "We're getting ready to move. Keep it tight and stay awake. The word is that the whole area is crawling with VC. Some kind of big offensive."

"Roger Six. Tight to Lima's butt and eyes wide. Coming right behind you." We started to move. The heat pressed down and we pressed on.

KRACK! KRACK!

The rounds echoed back from the front of our column. Everyone hit the ground, grateful for a reason to not have to keep standing. The shots had not been close to me. I had no clue as to where they were fired from. I watched and waited.

After a few minutes Chapman called. "Can't hold up for a few sniper rounds. We're heading up to join C Company. Get them up and moving, but keep watching for the snipers."

We moved. The heat made watching anything, other than the patch of earth one step in front, extremely difficult. After about thirty minutes, we were in position on C Company's left flank and stopped while the Brass decided how next to abuse us.

One thing about our Brass, they are exquisitely good at abuse.

Chapman called all the platoon leaders to his position. "We drew the Joker from the deck. We get to go out and try to retrieve the bodies."

"Wonderful! All the fuckin' VC in the world will be waiting for us." Kelly spit.

"Shut up! Just leave it alone," Chapman snarled. "They're our guys and we ain't going to leave 'em lying there. That is all there is to it. No discussion necessary."

"Roger." Hall interjected. "How do you want to do it, Captain?"

"Okay then. We head due west. At about four hundred meters the terrain shifts to thick bush. We'll do two columns from that point. Lima takes point on the right column, Mike on the left. November splits a squad each. Kelly, you stay behind Lima. I'll be over with Mike. Our best information is the bodies should be four to five hundred meters into the thick stuff. No need, but I'll say it anyway. There are no friendlies in there. If it moves or makes a noise blow it to hell and gone."

We prepared to move. I placed both Leon and Gilvey up front, where the Captain would be. I called Michael over. "I need you to keep your focus on running the squad. That's a little different than you're used to. I know you can handle it. Any questions?"

"Nah. Walk in the park."

I smiled, "One other thing. You might want to load a shotgun round in that field howitzer. Vegetation's supposed to be a bit thick."

Michael nodded and moved back to his squad. The Captain called "Move out." The temperature soared another couple of degrees past hellish. We trekked towards the rippling green wall of heavy vegetation. The load weighing us down seemed far heavier than heat, humidity, heavy gear, and rough terrain could possibly create.

Charlie knew we were there, knew we were coming in and did not appear to be in a mood to run. This one would be different. It was clear we were going to get what we were after. The hell with the cost.

We penetrated about two hundred meters into the heavy stuff. Visibility was no more than ten feet in any direction. I stopped for a moment to shift the weight of my gear and the alarm blared in my brain. Now! The left!

"Left flank! We got company!" I yelled at almost the same instant that fire came raking in at us...

KRACK! BOOM! KRACKITA! KRACK!

I ripped off half a magazine from my M-16 as I dove to the ground. "Let 'em have it!"

They did! A tremendous volume of fire flared out from us, trying to suppress the enemy fire. I saw the grenade in the air, panicked for a tenth of a second, and realized it was going over us. Thrown too far, thank God!

WHOOM!

The blast showered us with debris. No harm, no foul! I aimed at the spot I guessed was the point of origin for the grenade, lowered my sights to rake the ground, and fired ten more rounds working a pattern out to, hopefully, ruin Charlie's afternoon. I was rewarded with a scream.

I jammed a fresh magazine into my M-16, flipped my selector switch to single shot, and forced myself to focus on the sounds of the fire fight. After a few moments, it was clear that we were receiving no incoming rounds. Our fire had suppressed the enemy for the moment at least.

"Cease fire! Cease fire!" I yelled. "Hold your positions! Stay alert! Let's see what we've got." The firing stopped quickly. Good fire control.

I turned to my R.T.O., "Get me a sitrep. Find out if we've taken any hits."

"Roger, LT. Mike Two, Mike Two, what've you got. Mike Two, Mike—Damn it! What the fuck is wrong with this Prick 25?—LT, the damn radio is out."

"Shit. Get it fixed. Pronto! Pass the word down the line, situation report right now." I turned back to the front of the column, "Pass the word up the line to the Captain.

Radio out. Working on sitrep. Looks like its under control. Do it now!"

My R.T.O. pulled the radio off his back and frantically checked it. "Well hell! LT, the PRC 25, despite weighing too fucking much, is one fine radio." His voice was calm, but his face was twisted in a perverse, strange fashion. "It just don't work too well with holes in it. The goddam grenade shrapnel took it out!"

I stared blankly at him for a moment. The grenade I thought had just showered some debris threw shrapnel into his back. The radio protected him. For small favors, we are grateful, Lord. "Change that radio out for Michael's at the first opportunity—and, no more complaints about carrying a Prick 25, since one just saved your ass."

Weiler tried to smile. Dificult when your butthole is clenched too tight. "Never, ever."

The sitrep came down the line. No dead or wounded. No confirmed enemy KIA. I passed the report up the line to Chapman, including that I was temporarily without a radio. A few minutes later word came down the line to resume our march. We rose to our feet cautiously and started moving.

"Pass the word, fresh magazines. We don't know when Charlie will hit again. Stay sharp." I found a strange calm within me. Damn! My guys are really good! I felt that I could hear Charlie's breathing if he came within a hundred feet. I absolutely knew we could not be beaten.

We moved through the heat, fighting the underbrush, alert for the smallest sign of the enemy. An hour passed. Michael's radio was exchanged, and I informed Chapman I was back on the net.

"Mike Six, this is your Six. Hold up. We've found bodies."

Something clenched in my soul. Bodies meant American dead. We had come for them. But, nothing can prepare you for your own dead. We stopped, faced out to our left and waited. A half hour passed. My soul tried to find a release from what gripped it.

Chapman's voice slammed me back into the moment, "Mike Six, this is your Six. We have them. Four will be coming down the line. We're simply going to turn the lines inside out and reverse direction."

Minutes later the first body was carried past. A Sergeant, nothing extraordinary about him. As he was brought by me, I looked down at him. His right eye had been smashed and flattened. It reminded me of a fish eye. A dead fish lying in the bottom of the boat. No other injuries were evident.

No life either.

Don't mean nothin'.

Cold enveloped me. I felt no pain. No anger. No anything. In the distant recesses of my mind, a tremendous thundercloud of hatred was roiling, building to a height where I would have to look down to see God. I felt none of it. I just knew I was becoming more capable of doing whatever I would need to do to fulfill my mission and protect my men. To keep my emotions from interfering with my judgment I wrapped them in a shroud. Three more bodies were carried past.

Chapman appeared, a ghost in dusty, olive drab, looked at me, shook his head. "Bad!—Bad."

I nodded, "Yeah!" and Problem Solving Central kicked in with a plan. "Sir, chances are Charlie will follow us, wait until we're out in the open and hit us from inside the underbrush. How about giving them a surprise?"

"What've you got in mind, Lieutenant?"

"I'll take a squad and wait about twenty meters inside the thick stuff. We'll hit Charlie hard and quick. It should be enough for everyone to get far enough clear to cut our risk."

"And what do you plan to do with five or six guys, after you've really pissed Charlie off?" Chapman quizzed.

I grinned, "Di di like hell back to the loving arms of my leader, Mon Capitan."

"Certifiable. Absolutely Dinky Dau! Okay, You and five. Hit and run." Chapman paused. "I don't want to have to come back for you."

My face beamed. Yeah! Time to rock and roll!

The column reversed. I briefed Sergeant Gilvey and picked my five, Fat Michael, Coyote, Crazy George, Leon, and my R.T.O. I gathered them as the file reversed and made sure each man had two hand grenades and a full magazine. I had Michael keep the shotgun round in his M-79. We held the rear position.

We hiked faster, moving out of the thick underbrush than we had going in. We were sure Charlie was trailing, not waiting for us. An occasional sound of branches breaking or buckles clicking came from behind assuring us that we were indeed being shadowed. The hatred inside fueled me for the fight. Adrenaline coursed through my body. My senses were super-charged. Once again, I felt like I could pick up CKLW as they played Four hundred hits in a row—Nonstop! I wasn't about to stop either, and the hits I was going to play were real.

After an hour, word came that the front of the column was entering the open area. I motioned my five to move closer together. We'd have to move fast to be successful. Charlie would want to close to the edge of the underbrush quickly to catch as many of us in the open as possible.

As we planned, Gilvey passed word up the line when he had entered the open area. I signaled the men and moved out on the right flank at ninety degrees from the column. Every six strides I pointed to the ground and the last man in line took that position. Each man went down on one knee and readied two grenades. At the fifth position, I stopped with my R.T.O. and we pulled out our pineapples.

Time ceased. My senses worked overtime to identify Charlie's approach as early as possible. I had one grenade in my right hand with my left index finger in the ring. The second was clipped onto my webbing by its safety lever. My M-16 rested across my left knee. I waited and rechecked the flight path I had chosen to be absolutely sure my nasty surprises wouldn't bounce back at me.

There! It wasn't much noise but clearly moving our way. I estimated them to be about thirty meters. I wanted them closer. They were moving fast, in seconds they were within fifteen meters. Close enough!

I pulled the pin, yelled "Open Fire!", and lobbed my present. As it left my hand, I grabbed the second, pulled the pin, popped the safety lever and held it as I silently counted, One—One Thousand, Two—One Thousand...

KAWHOOM! KAWHOOM! KAWHOOM! KAWHOOM! KAWHOOM!

The first volley exploded! "Fire Two," I yelled and launched the second grenade. The first volley was to create a wall to slow them, while the second volley would be an air burst to rain down destruction on Charlie's head—and on his freaking ass. I grabbed my rifle and cut loose with full auto fire, as the second volley erupted—beautiful!

Agonizing screams in Vietnamese revealed our success. We laid down tremendous small arms fire. My magazine emptied. Reaching for another, I heard the third loud boom of Michael's shotgun rounds. I ripped off another twenty rounds, screamed "Move Out!" at the top of my lungs, inserted a third magazine and pivoted towards the open.

I ran, as the shrill voices of my enemies screamed their rage. The slap of AK rounds zipped in our direction. Crazy George roared at the top of his lungs, "Fuck you, Charlie! You want some, come and get it!"

"Goddam it, George, move out now!" I yelled.

Before I could do more, Fat Michael shouted, "C'mon George! Time to move! I've got him, LT! We're coming."

I broke into the open and immediately slowed to be sure all my men were clear. Michael and George were the last out. The company waited for us about a hundred meters ahead. They were spread on line, ready to rock and roll. We were about half way to them when it hit me – ninety pounds of equipment on my back and running in one hundred and sixteen degree heat. I was sorely tempted to slow down. The distinct feeling of concentric red circles painted on my back urged me on.

I fell gratefully to the ground a short distance from Chapman. My mind wanted to report. My body shouted Screw that! Water now!

I compromised. I gave Chapman a thumbs up with my right hand, while my left pulled out a canteen. I took two quick swallows and splashed some on my forehead. My body shuddered from the impact of the water on a system severely strained by exertion. My chest spasmed. I coughed and tried to throw up. Serious pain shot to the back of my skull. I sat there shaking.

The contortions of my body reflected the turmoil in my mind, relief that we had made it, pride for smacking the enemy hard for the men they had killed, and joy that all my men were safe. These were all wrapped in a burgeoning rage where I knew all these emotions, but felt none.

Chapman completed his conversation, flipped the handset to his R.T.O., gave me a stone cold grin, and said, "Good work, Lieutenant. You stalled them long enough. Arty's getting into the act. The howitzers will momentarily send a stern message. Keep your head down. Enjoy the show."

The arrival of eight-inch howitzer shells is always foreshadowed by a high pitched whistle. This warning is exceedingly brief—a few tenths of a second. Just enough time to raise my eyes and watch the entire performance. The first salvo thundered in about eight hundred meters out. The ground trembled.

Chapman worked the radio and adjusted the fire of the subsequent salvos. He worked the shelling a hundred meters closer to us, then a hundred meters to our right and back a hundred meters to our left. By the third adjustment the shells were less than four hundred meters from us. The ground shook and the noise acted like a hammer on my throbbing skull. Dust and debris settled down on us.

Between the heat, exertion and the fury of the artillery support, my brain felt like it was held in a vice being sliced and diced. I didn't mind. Charlie was paying ten-fold, no, a hundred-fold for the nine dead Americans.

Despite the hatred that sustained me and the visceral satisfaction of such immediate vengeance, I felt some relief when the shelling ceased. I looked over at Chapman and nodded. He raised his eyebrows slightly. We needed no words. I emptied the water in my second canteen down my parched throat. The ringing in my ears faded.

The dust had barely settled when orders came to pull back next to C Company. The order of march was the same, First Platoon in the lead, Second in the middle and Third bringing up the rear. As we started, the helicopters bearing our dead rose into the air and headed towards Bien Hoa Air Base.

Chapman kept his command group in the middle with me. "Lieutenant, I've a few words for you," he began as we started to move. "That was a piece of work."

"Thank you, Sir," I responded.

"Now before you get too damn swell-headed, let me tell you where you came close to screwing up. You shouldn't have chosen Crazy George. He's a hell of a fighting soldier. He's also past certifiable on the squirrelly scale. I'm surprised he didn't decide to charge the enemy or at least try to stay and fight."

"He did, Sir. Try to stay that is, not charge. Fat Michael grabbed him and hauled him out."

"Phew! You're luckier than I thought. The thing with George is, he had his closest friend killed about five months ago. Died in his arms. Took George over the edge. He extended for six months for two reasons. First, to go back to the world for the funeral."

"So Gilvey told me. The second reason?" I asked.

"To kill VC. That is all he wants to do. Kill as many as he can for his friend. Makes for a hell of a fighting man, but beyond boo koo dinkydau, no judgment at all. Capiche?"

I nodded.

We reached C Company and established a perimeter next to them. Thankfully, we were immediately re-supplied with water and ammo. I chugged down boo koo cold clear and topped off both my canteens. Then I had Sergeant Gilvey and Doc check each man for dehydration and issue salt pills.

When Doc checked me, he said "LT, you look like you could use a half dozen salt pills. Didn't anyone tell you it ain't bright to be trying to run long distances in this heat. Hell, officially the mercury is at a hundred and sixteeen degrees."

"Doc, it isn't even healthy to just be sitting here," I grinned. "Besides, I only ran because of my allergy."

"You mean the bad reaction from small round holes that let the blood out?"

"That's the one, Doc. Think of it as saving labor on your part."

"Fine by me, LT. You keep pulling stunts like today, it will catch up to you."

I just shrugged. Doc was absolutely correct. I should have been scared, but all that my mind could come up with was, It don't mean nothin'.

The shroud hid fear with all other emotions except anger. I was too tired at the moment for much anger to register. I was ready to do my job.

Orders came before I could spend much time contemplating. We were to sweep to the South to find if the VC were moving to get around us and move on Saigon. With the sun jack-hammering our brains, a path through the trees was welcome even if the terrain gave ample hiding places to Charlie.

Our path paralleled an irrigation ditch. To our left there were about five hundred meters of medium growth underbrush, then rice paddies and the road into Saigon. To our right was heavy brush, extending a long way on the other side of the stream. Everyone was alert, but the heat and stress of the day was wearing us down.

Coyote was definitely feeling it. He dropped back. "LT, I feel like I'm walking into a friggin' shooting gallery, and hell, I'm a coyote not a duck."

"Okay, Coyote." I said, "Any idea on direction or proximity?"

"No, LT. Sorry, but it feels like they're all around us, just waiting until we're all in the kill zone."

"You might be all too accurate. We probably hit them pretty good. I don't think Charlie is in a mood for hit and run."

As Coyote returned to his position, notifying the front half of the platoon as he went, I passed the word down the line. Problem Solving Central worked on what to do if—no, when Charlie hit. The best way to deal with an ambush is never walk into it. Barring that option, the recommended action, as our Ranger Instructor in O.C.S had put it, is: 'storm the enemy positions with all due haste and overrun the suckers!'

WHOOM! BRACKA! BRACKITA!

Fire hit our entire column at once. I yelled "Hit the dirt! Right Flank!" as the savage roaring enclosed my immediate world. The gooey brown stuff definitely impacted the rotating oscillator.

Any port in a storm. "Into the ditch!" I yelled, "Take cover in the ditch!" I jumped most of the way to the far edge. My platoon followed quickly. In seconds, we were all laying down a solid wall of fire into the heavy brush.

Incoming fire raked our entire line. We were obviously engaged with a significant force, ready to dance.

"Mike Six, This is your Six. Report!" Chapman's voice was hard and in control.

"Six, Mike Six. My guys are all in the ditch returning fire. No known casualties."

"Roger. Good enough. Keep up the fire, while I figure out what's next." Chapman's voice was so amazingly calm, I felt serenity descend on me. Yeah! We'll kick Charlie's ass again. He picked the wrong people to hit.

I peered up and down the line. "Change to semi-automatic fire and alternate people firing! Work on keeping their heads down for now. Conserve our ammo," I yelled.

"Mike Six, this is your Six. Get your people ready to move. Just follow Lima. We're taking a ninety degree to the left away from the unfriendlies. Do you copy?"

"Six, Mike Six. That's a long walk down the shooting gallery for us and longer for November," I responded.

"I'm having November reverse and do a ninety from where they are," Chapman patiently explained. "You have to walk it no matter which way you go. Get ready to move."

"Roger. Piece of cake." I passed the word to pull out of the ditch on command and resume moving. Minutes later, I ordered, "Move out! Let's do it, people. Keep up cover fire as necessary. Move Out!"

We moved less than twenty meters when...

KRACK! KRACKITA! KRACK!

...was followed by the shrill screams of men being hit. Screams of pain, rage, and disbelief, always disbelief.

"Everybody down and return fire!" I shouted. "Doc, Move back! You're needed at the rear." I had no feeling other than total cold efficiency, but in the distant recesses, my soul began to tear. My shroud worked. I allowed anger to build.

I called Chapman, "Got some men down and taking fire. Walking the shooting gallery ain't cutting it. Can we come up with Plan B?"

"I'm open to suggestions but one way or another you've got to get out of there. Walking the gallery is the only way I can see."

I prayed for Problem Solving Central to kick into gear. It did. "Six, let me draw straight back on line. If I can keep the line together, we can face Charlie and at least shoot back effectively."

"Hell! I don't know. Keeping the line together will be next to impossible and you don't know what you might back into."

"Six, I know what I get walking down the line. It's the best option I've got."

Sergeant Gilvey broke in, "Delta Six, Mike Five. We have two hit, one bad in the legs. The sooner we can move out of here the better! I think straight back can be done, but we need to move now. Sitting here ain't gonna make it better."

"Roger!" Chapman's voice was clear and hard. "Pull back on line to the rice paddy. We'll loop the ends and meet you. Good luck. Out."

I saw a bush to my front move in a way I didn't like. I emptied a full magazine into it. The movement ceased. "Mike Five this is your Six. Let's pass the word and begin draw back in two minutes. That's one hundred and twenty seconds from my mark. My mark is—now."

I passed the word to begin drawing back on line. I emphasized the need to keep contact with the man next to you and move together. Ninety seconds to go. "Mike Five this is your Six. Gilvey can you guys carry the wounded?"

"LT, just look down this way in a minute. We're covered but you won't fucking believe what you see."

The seconds dragged, but finally two minutes passed. I stood up and, in my loudest if not best, command voice shouted, "Second Platoon! Get up and draw back on line. Keep the line together and fire at will at any damn thing that moves. Let's do it!"

I looked to my right and swallowed hard. Crazy George had given his rifle to another soldier and had his wounded comrade in a fireman's carry. He was hauling butt at maximum rate. Not really fast, true, but beautiful to behold in all of its ungainly glory.

I shook my head and reverted to command duties. My primary focus was keeping the line organized and moving together. This involved a lot of yelling and frequent stops to allow men a chance to get on line. After five minutes, I called for the first break. I crouched next to my R.T.O. to call Chapman with a sitrep. As I talked, my R.T.O. kept pulling on my pants leg and saying something. Focused on my report, I didn't hear what he said. Finally, I looked down and rather exasperatedly said, "What?'

"Uh, LT, you might want to consider getting down and taking cover. A sniper is trying to bust your ass."

I focused, realized that no rounds had come close enough to set off my personal radar, grinned and said, "Well shoot back. I'm too busy to deal with it."

Weiler registered shock briefly, nodded his head and responded, "Roger, LT."

I looked for George. He had his buddy down and pulled out a canteen. He took a swig and reached to hand the canteen to his comrade.

BLANG!

An AK round blew the canteen right out of his hand.

George mouthed an unsociable comment, grabbed his friend, moved him quickly into the fireman's carry, and ran as fast as he could.

I checked quickly. The line was good. "Second Platoon, fall back," I shouted. I moved and turned back to my right in time to see George trip and fall. As he hit the ground with his buddy, a bush directly in front of him was ripped in half by machine gun fire. Had he not fallen at that precise moment, he and his friend would be dead.

I said the only thing that came to mind "Shit...." I shook my head and returned to the task at hand getting my men out of the gooey brown pile mentioned previously.

"Move back! Keep it on line!" I yelled. "Keep an eye on the man next to you. Don't lose contact." Slowly, we disengaged from the enemy. My watch showed six minutes had passed. I opened my mouth to call a rest...

KRACK!

This round was within my radar and absolutely in my direction. I was half way to the ground before it registered, Not close. Missed you. Get the men stopped.

"Hold up! Everyone take a rest and get back on line. Check and make sure your buddies are accounted for." I passed the word and called Chapman.

I looked over toward George but brush obscured my view. I let them rest four minutes. "Long enough sitting. Get up and keep moving back!" I hollered.

We moved for about three minutes.

KRACK!

Another round whistled by. Damn, the son of a bitch must have a cheap watch and is using it to time his shots at me. Well, he's a lousy shot. That one missed by a good ten meters. Wonder where the bastard is?

It took three more stops before we entered the open rice paddy. My personal sniper had thrown four more rounds at me, none closer than five meters.

"Mike Six, This is your Six. Link your guys up with November and turn the corner to link with Lima. You get the front corner of this party." Chapman's voice was clear and firm—comforting.

"Seems like a dandy hootenanny, Six. Who've we got with us?"

"Bring the wounded to the road. Dust-off birds are on the way. How many did you end up with?" Chapman's voice was steady but held the certainty of knowing he would not like the information he was about to receive.

"We were lucky," I answered. "Only the two from the initial fire. One is pretty bad though. George carried him out."

"George? No shit! Well I said he was a good combat soldier. The answer to your question is we've got enough fire power to make Charlie think three or four times before he pushes it." Chapman continued, "We've got three infantry companies, three M-60 Main Battle Tanks, two fast movers – Phantom F-4s, and the house specialty – two Huey Cobra Gunships on call."

"Damn Six, tell me more, I think I love ya!" I enthused.

KRACK!

"Fuck! That damn bastard is getting close!" I yelled.

I suddenly realized I had broadcast my comment. Chapman came back, "What the hell are you carrying on about?"

"Aw shit! I've got a goddammed mickey mouse sniper, who's been shooting at my butt every six or seven minutes. The last round was the first one within five meters. The mickey mouse asshole has a bad wristwatch and a bad eye. Thank God!" I paused, "But I've had about enough of his mickey mouse nonsense."

"Well Mickey," Chapman snickered, "don't let him shoot off your mouseketeer ears."

"Roger," I laughed. "As soon as my guys settle in, I'll work on finding the little bastard and closing out this game. Any special directions?"

"Just get your guys linked and keep smoke grenades out front for the flyboys to know where we are." Chapman paused, "And, do try not to get shot. We haven't even got you broken in yet. Six out."

Gilvey, Leon, and Fat Michael set up the platoon quickly. Gilvey and I established our command post behind one of the pock-marked gravestones which littered the landscape.

I removed my web gear and bent over to set it behind the stone.

KRACK!

"Damn," I yelled as I allowed my body to collapse, like water from a busted jug, to the ground next to the gear. "That mother is getting close!" I glared at Gilvey.

He took the hint. "I'll get the guys to looking for him, Mickey." He shook his head and moved down to the line. I watched for a minute.

"Hey, LT. Where do you want me?"

I pivoted and found myself looking at George, his shirt bloodied from his comrade's leg wounds, but otherwise not the worse for wear.

"George, How is...."

"They dusted him off. He should be okay. Where do you want me? I'm ready."

I looked at what he was holding. "I guess so. Where the hell did you get an M-60?"

"Oh, it was lying around, so I appropriated it. Where you want me?"

"Take the end of the line next to November with Fat Michael's Squad. And George—"

"Yes Sir."

"Good work today, man."

"Yeah, sure, LT. Okay, I'll join the Fatman."

He walked down to the line, and I sat down behind the stone.

The sniping ceased as the afternoon progressed. After a period of no bullets whizzing past my body, I turned to Gilvey. "What do you think, Sarge? Did he take his little rifle and go home or what?"

"Nah. He's still out there. He just can't get a good shot with you hiding behind that stone marker."

"Makes sense to me. Guess I'll just enjoy sitting for a time."

"Good idea." Gilvey agreed as he removed the top from a crate of smoke grenades. He popped the top and set the crate at the edge of the stone next to me.

"Hey Sarge!" Leon shouted. "Need some of those smoke grenades down here pronto. We're fresh out and those sky pilots are shaky enough when they've got smoke to guide them."

"Right." Gilvey responded, "Coming right up."

"Need one ASAP, if you please!"

"I'll get it," I said and reached into the crate with my left hand. I stood up, stepped around the stone, took one long stride and lobbed the grenade towards Leon.

KRACK!

The bullet, with my initials if not my name on it, went right between my legs. I uncoiled like a broken spring, diving up, back and to the right, and landed with a heavy thud behind the gravestone.

I laid still my teeth grinding in abject disbelief.

"That—Is—Goddamed—Eeeeeee—Nuff," I snarled.

I rose to my knees, shifted my position to lean around the stone, "Leon, Fat Michael, Crazy George, find that gook bastard and waste his ass! Do it now!"

My people went to work. I seethed. Gilvey sat and watched the line intently. By this time everybody knew the shots were six or seven minutes apart.

KRACK!

Right on schedule. Gilvey looked at me and gulped. He had been reaching for a grenade when the round cleared the top of the grave and the top of his hand, both clearances about one inch.

"Spotted him, LT!" Leon yelled. "He's shooting from the second floor of that farm house. We'll nail him for you."

I shook my head, amazed at our stupidity. Two thirds of an infantry company had spent most of the afternoon in action around this two story French Provincial farm house, built in an adobe style and had never checked it out. Here we sat only about eighty meters in front of where it stood just inside the tree line. That kind of stupidity could be costly. Mental note to self, Always check out the obvious, Dummy!

Leon had moved next to Fat Michael who sighted in the window with his M-79. The minutes ticked by and Leon started a countdown for Michael.

"Four—three—two—one—Fire!"

The blooper coughed. Just before the grenade hit, a figure popped out with his rifle ready to shoot.

WHOOMP! BOOM!

His day was completely ruined.

The anger which had built in me all day turned cold. Deep space, absolute zero cold. I grabbed the radio, "Delta Six, this is Mickey Six. Are those Cobras for show or can we fire them?"

"Mickey Six, this is your Six. We can fire them. Have you got a target?"

"Roger, I want that damned farm house blown to smithereenies!"

"Are you sure? That looks like awfully close fire support?"

"Six, I am totally sure. Take that mother down to rubble. It's infested with bad guys. It needs a High Explosive Enema!"

"You got it. Keep the smoke out. The pilot will call and ID you directly."

"Keep throwing out red smoke," I yelled. "We're going to fire the cobras."

Leon's face turned green and he stared hard at me. I pretended not to notice.

"Gilvey, make sure they don't run out of red smoke, please." I spoke with quiet sarcasm. My iceberg cold, anger floated at the center of my mind and heart.

"Mickey Six, Mickey Six, this is Tiger One overhead in position for fire support mission. I identify red smoke marking your position. Do you confirm?" the radio crackled.

"Tiger One, this is Mickey Six. Roger, I confirm. Red smoke marks our perimeter. We are east of the smoke in the rice paddy," I responded.

"Roger, Mickey Six. Red smoke is confirmed. Do you have a fire mission?"

"Tiger One, this is Mickey Six. There is a two story farm house located about eighty meters in front of our perimeter. Your mission is to remove it from the face of the earth. Do you copy?"

"Copy. Keep your heads down boys, we're coming in!"

The universe imploded as Tiger One started his run. From eight hundred meters up and two hundred meters behind us, Tiger One kicked in his mini-guns and moved forward and down.

The original mini-gun, called the "Vulcan", fired six thousand rounds a minute. The conservative military reduced the firing rate to a mere four thousand rounds a minute, sixty-six and two thirds rounds of twenty millimeter ammunition a second.

I was not inclined to figure out exactly how the two thirds of a round worked, as the roar of the gun erased my ability to think or move. I simply stared—an undertaker smile on my face—while the world blew to bits in front of me.

The pervasive thought in my frozen mind was, The gun sight is mounted on the gunner's helmet. The gun points where he looks. God! Please don't let him be gay and want to check my ass out! I felt my prayer was most sincere if not the best phrased.

I pasted a happy look on my mug. God, those rounds are a few meters from blowing my men to hell!

At six hundred meters up and one hundred meters behind us, Tiger One switched off the mini-gun. Stabilized in place and fired four rockets, two at a time...

WHOOSH! BOOM! WHOOSH! BOOM!

The house came apart in massive chunks. A piece of its roof evaporated into sawdust. Part of the top floor facing us, simply disappeared.

Whoa! Whatever else, it sure is working. Elation nearly overwhelmed me.

Tiger One kicked in the mini-gun and resumed his descent. The noise was so enveloping, I could not discern where it ended and the landscape began.

At four hundred meters, Tiger One was straight above me. I looked up then, and I knew what the entrance to hell looks like.

The mini-gun went quiet and four rockets roared almost straight down. Before the concussion even reached me, Tiger One wheeled right and roared off. I opened my mouth to breath, and yelped as thunder again crushed down on me. Tiger Two was providing the encore with precisely the same choreography.

I smiled on.

By the time Tiger Two had its nose pointed almost straight down from four hundred meters directly above me and unleashed its four rockets at what remained of our side of the house, my mind resumed function. The noise overload problem severely diminished as my senses simply adjusted to its longevity. "Leon, get some more red smoke out pronto! The show ain't over!" I shouted.

At least, I thought I shouted. It was rather hard to tell for sure with that loud ringing going on. Leon waved acknowledgement.

I smiled. Then blinked hard...

ROARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!

Tiger One resumed his fire mission from eight hundred meters up and four hundred meters to our right. His mini-gun superbly ravaged the front porch of the house.

The piece de resistance came with his first four rockets. The first two eliminated the double front door. The second two turned the first floor of the house into a raging inferno.

Seconds later, eight figures exited the far side of the house. "Bastards!" screamed George as he jumped up, held the machine gun out with his right arm, feeding the belt with his left hand, and cut loose.

BRACKITA!

One running figure went down, and George shouted "Noooo!" as he pointed his weapon at the sky. "Oh God, don't jam now you piece of shit!"

The rest of the platoon had followed George's example and were firing, but the VC were no longer visible. George continued to pull the release on his M-60 trying to clear the machine gun for firing. ARRGH! he screamed and threw the M-60 to the ground. He turned rapidly side to side with his hands out making clutching motions. "A gun! I need a gun! Somebody give me an M-16! PLEASE! I gotta kill those bastards! They shot Turner! Ohhh, pleeease!" he started to shake and moan.

Fat Michael moved quickly to his side as the firing from the platoon died out. He grabbed George by the shoulders just as Tiger One put two more rockets into the remains of the farm house. "George! It's okay, man. It's okay. We're gonna get 'em. Be cool, man."

George stiffened and stared into Michael's face. Michael began the mantra, "C'mon, George. It don't mean nothin'. It don't mean nothin'. You know it don't mean nothin'. C'mon."

As he continued, George slowly joined in, "Don't—mean—nothin'. Don't mean—nothin'. Don't mean nothin'!"

Beyond them Tiger Two had begun his second run. It was obvious that by the end of his run the farm house would actually be blown to smithereenies and removed from the universe. Awesome! I continued to smile.

"Sergeant Gilvey, get that M-60 down to Moyer and see if he can get it unjammed. Get the men back down into position and then we need to see about re-supply."

"Yes, Sir." Gilvey shook his head, "Hell of a show, huh Mickey?"

"Oh, yeah Sergeant," I laughed. "A moderately impressive show for sure."

I could not have wiped the smile off my face if I had been inclined to try. I was not amused or happy. The only emotion touching me remained deep cold anger. Problem Solving Central kicked in. Well stupid, you were awful lucky that time. These Cobras are not toys to play with. Damn it that fire was way close!

Try telling me something of which I might not be aware.

Okay, keep smiling. You are fast gaining a reputation for being completely insane and without fear. In combat, it will help these men to follow you.

I smiled.

The thing is, you have to appear insane but stay sane. You can't lose it like George, and you can't let anger make you do stupid things. Ice cold, superior reason is the only chance for your guys and you to make it through.

I smiled.

Understood. Can I stop smiling now. My face hurts.

Yeah. It makes you look silly anyway.

Thanks.

I shook my head a little and let my face relax.

"Mickey Six, Tiger One. Was the fire mission acceptable to you ground huggers?"

I picked up the mike, "Number One! A Number One, son!" The beer is on me the next time we are in the bar at the same time. Great shooting!"

"Roger that, Mickey, we're out of here to re-load. Keep it rolling with all appropriate body parts attached. Out!"

****

Chapter 4 ~ Quick Kill

As we began to sort out and prepare for what might come next, Doc Flores rejoined us from treating the wounded. "Hey, LT. Quite a show! Impressive."

"Thanks Doc. How were the guys? What are they looking at."

"Million dollar wounds, both of them. Trips back to the world for sure, but no danger of dying."

I felt a small bit of relief inside. "Good," I managed.

"You know, L.T, the Brass are really having an animated discussion up there."

"Yeah. About what?"

"I'm not sure. I don't know who they were discussing. Something about a totally freaking insane guy named Mickey Six. Heard of him?'

I just looked at Doc for a long moment. "Gee Doc, can't say I've heard of him before today. What do you think?"

"Well, the Brass are idiotic assholes. You can't put much stock in what they say."

"Yeah."

"But...."

"Yes, Doc?"

"Well, I say there is good insanity, useful insanity, and there's bad insanity, stupid insanity. What I saw today looked like the good kind."

"Thanks, Doc."

"But...."

"Yessss, Doc." I pleaded.

"The line between them is very, very thin. Keep that in mind—Mickey."

I nodded, "Try to, I . . ."

BRACKITACKITACKITACKITA! BRACKITACKITAACKITACKITA!

I spun to my left, dropping to my right knee and raising my M-16 as I searched for the source of the fire. Doc and most of the surrounding GIs hit the dirt. My head turned and I focused on the firing.

It was Moyer. He held the M-60 stretched out in his right hand, feeding the belt with his left. His feet were spread shoulder width and he was leaning back a bit. His finger was not coming off the trigger and rounds continued to spray out to our front.

Leon, looked over at me, grinned, and yelled, "Just clearing a weapon, Mickey."

"Clearing a weapon?" I returned. "How many rounds has he got hooked in to that thing?"

"Oh, eight belts I think." Leon shouted. "He wants to be sure its clear."

Eight hundred fucking rounds! I groaned to myself. Get ready. Here it comes.

"Mickey, it's the Captain. Wants to know what's going down." My R.T.O. handed me the mike.

"Six, Mickey Six."

"What the hell is going on there Mickey? What have you got?"

"Well, Six, uhhh—actually, we're just clearing George's jammed M-60."

The firing continued.

"Clearing an M-60! Mickey are you nuts? It don't take that many rounds, and the Colonel is not a happy man. I mean, fuck...."

"Uh. Well sir, you know my guy's just being thorough. You—uh—want me to tell them to stop?—or something?"

"Damn it! Yes, of course...."

The firing stopped. I looked over at Moyer. The machine gun had no belt hanging from it. He had fired every round. He tossed the M-60 to George. "Here. I think it will fire now."

"Firing is completed, Six. Sorry about that. What's up next?" I asked quickly hoping to change the subject.

After a long pause, Chapman came back, "Well we're the grand prize winner. C Company is going in to stand down and lick their wounds. We get to stay out on ambush. You'll have point. Get your guys ready. We'll head out in about fifteen minutes."

"Great. Six, is incompetence always rewarded while those who can do it get it stuck where the sun don't shine?"

"That they do. The good news is Recon Platoon will be joining us. Be ready in fifteen."

"Roger, Six, Ready in fifteen."

Another fine mess. "Gilvey. Leon. Michael. Conference over here now. We've got another mission."

As my men gathered around, my mind raced through the possible problems we would face in moving and setting an ambush.

"We've got ambush for the night. Charlie is definitely in the neighborhood and spoiling for a fight. If we have to move far, we'll be moving in the dark and setting up the ambush same same. The good news is Recon will be strolling through the boonies with us. Any thoughts?" I asked.

"Not any you'd express in front of your mother." Gilvey spat out. "I mean fuuuck!"

"Yeah, but you know how it is. Any other concerns?"

Fat Michael spoke so low it was almost a whisper, "Yeah. George. I mean he's always been crazy, but I ain't sure he didn't just leap off the edge. Ya know?"

You think he's incapable of functioning?"

"Nah. He's a good combat soldier. But, LT, there are limits, and he's getting close."

"Okay Michael. We need to go with him for now. In fact, I think we should place him on point."

"What? I dunno, LT...."

"Look, it will keep him focused. He'll be where we can keep an eye on him, and if he jumps off into never-never land, at least no one will be in front of him. We'll go with that. Leon, your guys are in second position with Gilvey. I'll be up front with Michael. Any more questions?"

I paused. Everyone shook their head. "Good. You've got about ten minutes to re-supply water and ammo and get organized. That's if we move out according to plan, so we probably have longer but don't count on it. Let's do it."

Sergeant Gilvey and my squad leaders moved in various directions to get prepared. I turned to my R.T.O. to call the Captain for details on the ambush, when I saw him walking towards me. He was just short of six feet tall, athletic build but not over muscular, a dark black, black man, wearing First Lieutenant bars and an expression mean enough to cause most people to decide to move in another direction—any other direction.

"Hey, Mon!" he stuck a large hand out offering a handshake. "I'm Matthew Bartholemus David Johnson. Recon Platoon Leader. The best leader of the best platoon in the Army of these United States." He grinned and that black face lit up with dazzling teeth.

I shook his hand, as strong a grip as I expected. "And modest too." He laughed and I joined him.

"So Matthew Bartholemus David have you a shorter moniker for us peasants?"

"Well, as you may perceive my mother was a strong reader of the bible, liked many of the people therein and named me accordingly. She also frowned on shortening any of them."

"I certainly would not wish to offend your mother," I offered with a smile.

"That is true, Mon, so true. However my friends have solved the problem and call me MBD. When those I do not like ask what MBD stands for, I tell them it means Mean Bad Dog." He grinned again, and I knew he would be a good friend.

"I see," I nodded. "MBD have they, by chance, given you tonight's directions and ambush location?"

"Yes indeed. I have all the party plans with me. You know I offered to have Recon take point and the Colonel concurred, but Captain Chapman said no. He seems to have acquired some confidence in you."

"Well...." I grinned.

"Of course, he phrased it as 'Why don't we let the dinkydau one go first?'"

Ten minutes later, the plans reviewed and Recon Platoon having joined us, we were ready to go. Of course, we waited. The delay was about thirty minutes. We started with less than half an hour of daylight left and over a thousand meters to traverse.

We used up the daylight in the first four hundred meters. The tropical curtain of night slammed down and we slowed considerably. One hour and two hundred meters further we approached a stand of trees.

"Hold up, LT," George whispered. "I think we've got some hootches ahead."

"Column halt," I passed back. I keyed the radio mike. "Six, Mickey Six. We've got some hootches in the trees ahead. Suggest a pause while we check them out."

"Mickey. Six. Roger. Check them out but try to move it along we have a ways to travel yet. Out."

I stepped up to George's side, "Any ideas George?"

"Yeah, how about we take R&R in Australia leaving now?"

"Good idea, 'cept I'm taking my R&R in Hawaii. Always wanted to visit there."

George quietly chuckled.

"Only way I figure we can do this is you go in first and I'll cover you."

"Right, LT."

George stepped forward. I let him take three strides and I started. Two strides later George's back stiffened and he froze in place. I went hyper trying to see, hear and smell everything hidden in the darkness in front of us.

"George. What is it? What have you got?"

He stepped back to me. "Nothing, LT, I can't do this. It's too crazy."

"Okay, George, stay calm." I spoke with quiet authority while my mind screamed at Problem Solving Central, What the hell now?

You get to go first. What else can you do? snorted PSC.

Are you kidding? This is Crazy, ice water in his fucking veins, gotta kill commies George, and he is too scared to do it?

Yeah, but he hasn't actually seen anything, so get it in gear. You're the one who wanted to be a leader.

That's a scurrilous lie and you know it. I'd kick your ass if I wasn't busy.

"George. I'll go first, you cover. Got it?"

"Yes, Sir."

I moved in front of George, stepping slowly. My previously hyper senses were now operating outside the range of any known measuring instrument.

I took one step—two—three...Not so bad...

KRACK!

Before I consciously registered the sound I felt my body dive to the ground and my M-16 nestle into my shoulder ready to fire, as I hit turf.

A single shot—silence. My mind informed me that the round had been fired from my right front about fifty meters out and had passed at least twenty feet to my right.

I pointed in that direction with my rifle and waited.

A full minute passed and P.S.C. suggested, Try breathing before you pass out. I gulped air and risked a look over my shoulder. At first I saw no one. Then George crawled forward.

"You all right, LT?"

"Just peachy, George. You?"

"Damn, LT. You were on the ground before I heard the shot. Never seen anybody move that fast. Damn." The last spoken almost with reverence.

"It's an illusion, George. I'm actually on a beach in Hawaii. I'm not really here."

George smothered a giggle, as I crawled back to him. "Hey, Mickey. You're Number One, Man."

"Thanks, George. Hold position for a moment while I call our fearless leader."

"Six. This is Mickey Six. No one hit, but this is not a good move. Can we take another route?"

"Mickey, you've got a mission to complete here. Stop fucking with it and move forward."

"Six, You know I'll go if you say, but I remember a fearless leader not too long ago telling me not to be a fool. I think I will be, if I go forward."

"Damn you, Mickey—All right. Hold in place while I work on it." I crawled back to George, "Anything?"

"Nada, LT. We shouldn't go forward though. Death is sitting there. Just waiting for customers."

"Working on it, George. Working on it." And praying on it. Praying as sincerely as an ex-seminarian, with serious doubts about the whole universe, is capable of praying.

"Mickey Six, Six. I've got revised travel plans for you."

"Six, Mickey Six, have I told you lately, how much I admire your judgment?"

"No, and if you start, I'll send you into those trees by yourself. I want you to turn ninety degrees to your left and after two hundred meters take a forty-five degree turn to the right. That should put us on target about two hundred meters from our site."

"Roger! Affirmative! Yes Sir! You got it! Moving as we speak."

"Can the chatter, Mickey, and get us moving."

I moved down the line past my R.T.O. and found Coyote a short distance back.

"Coyote. We're making a turn ninety degrees left just ahead. Take a position and make sure everyone makes the turn and follows us. You can join back with us later. Any questions?"

We turned and moved slowly away from what my instincts told me would have been bookoo bad. Thank you again for the lesson, Lt. Weiman.

We made good progress. Just before midnight we arrived at the ambush site. It started to rain and the temperature dropped rapidly. We were still in the rice paddy. Directly ahead stood a small stand of palm trees, connecting to the jungle at one edge. Chapman directed us to move into the stand of trees. He had half of my platoon turn ninety degrees right and cover the edge of the trees facing the jungle. The rest were within the stand but still on line with the rest of the company. The company set up along a dike jutting out into the paddy. Recon Platoon was assigned the far end of the line. We established your basic "Reverse L" shaped ambush.

We placed our claymores and settled in for the night. Chapman called and informed me we would have a spotter plane flying overhead shortly and dropping flares all night to light the area.

I made a circuit to check positions. The rain had stopped, but it continued getting cooler. As I approached the elbow point of the "L" I found Gilvey in quiet conversation with Leon.

"Hey guys. What's up?" I spoke softly.

"Leon has found a damn path right up to the edge of our bush, LT."

"Oh great! Let's take a look. Leon, good work. Finish setting your men. Gilvey and I will check it out."

A five foot wide canal filled with water slid nicely around the stand of trees we were in. Gilvey and I leapt over it. The footpath, about six feet wide, extended into the jungle. I contemplated what, if anything we needed to do. My train of thought was derailed by the sound of an airplane overhead. The first flare popped and the ghoulish green light of the flare lit the landscape to something less than the brightness of dusk, more than we had a moment earlier.

"Gilvey, I think —" A form flittered across the partially lit path about 200 meters out. My derailed thoughts crashed as I pivoted and raised my M-16 to—nothing.

"Did you see that?" I whispered.

"Yeah. VC for sure."

Another form jumped across the narrow area of vision open to us. I had my rifle at my shoulder instantly, but didn't fire. The target was too fast.

"Let's get back on the other side of the stream."

We moved quickly back to the platoon. I called Chapman.

"Yeah at least two VC, Sir. Likely more. I think I should put a listening post out to give us a warning if they come this way."

"Roger, Mickey. Wait five while I alert everyone and then see what you can find along the edge of the jungle out to our front. If they are crossing that walk path, they are probably not going to come walking down it."

Five minutes later, divested of my back pack and canteens, I jumped back over the stream. I searched slowly down the edge of the jungle. About thirty meters out, thanks to the flares overhead, I spotted a small mound that might provide some concealment for the listening post. I moved towards it.

I covered twenty meters. I felt their presence, a tremendous hostile energy, aimed at the core of my being. I looked out away from the ambush site and twelve VC moved into view about 200 meters from me. One walked point, ten were in the main body, and one VC walked trail behind the rest. They seemed perfectly disciplined.

I froze. I did not so much as quiver. I willed myself to be invisible. Look, nobody here. No! Don't look! The guys all know I'm out here. They won't trigger the ambush.

BRACKITA! BRACKITA! BOOM!

MBD and Recon Platoon wiped that thought as they opened fire. Their volley ripped into the point man and the center group of the VC. I noted, with an efficiency so calm as to be evil, no one targeted the 'Trail'. He turned, spotted me and threw his AK-47 to his shoulder.

I took a half step toward him, pulled my M-16 halfway up my ribs and, with obscene calmness, fired.

BRACKITA-ACKITA!

I cut loose the full twenty rounds in the magazine. In the ghastly, green light the 'Trail' blasted backward dragging weeds and underbrush. I lost sight of him before the last round left my barrel.

The shroud on my emotions went completely opaque. I felt a small sense of satisfaction that I had been faster and was still alive.

The 'Trail' rifle at his shoulder blasting through the weeds seared into my soul. The ghastly, green ghost dematerialized.

I knew without thinking that I had crossed a line and changed the course of my soul forever. Yet, that knowledge did not touch me.

There were no VC left standing. I pivoted and ran. I felt no fear, but I knew I would surely be in a safer position back with my platoon. Rapid movement in the dark, or even the near dark provided by the flares still being dropped, is always a bit of a problem, but I reached the drainage canal and jumped for the other side. In midair, I realized I had miscalculated the distance and was about to get very wet. What concerned me though, was the possibility of punji stakes – sharpened bamboo stakes, often coated with excrement – frequently placed by Charlie, where a G.I. might be likely to step or jump. The sides and bottoms of ditches, even water filled, were frequent choices. I pulled myself into a cannonball position, clamped my feet together as tightly as I could, and splashed down.

My joy on hitting the bottom and finding no punji stakes was immediately replaced by the realization that the water was far deeper than I had thought and I was way under, and wearing enough equipment to make swimming an imposing challenge. I got my feet under me and pushed violently upward. I shot halfway out of the water and found, to my relief that it was only about four feet deep. Drowning as a possible way out of the 'Nam vanished, at least for the night.

"Hey! Give a wet Lieutenant a hand up!"

Two of my men reached down, grabbed my arms and yanked. One moment in the water; the next wet, but standing on dry land. Worked for me.

"Thanks, guys."

"No sweat, Mickey." Leon whispered, "Glad to have you back with the living."

"Glad to be back, Leon. Whose damn idea was it to trigger the 'bush with my backside exposed?"

"Captain called it. He thought Recon had the angle. I think everyone is thinking you're one of those can't get hit anyway. No one was supposed to shoot from this end. He raised hell about you shooting until we told him who was doing the shooting. Did you nail the trail gook?"

"Looked like it. Hard to tell in the dark."

"That will be your first kill. You waxed him, by yourself, and his body will be there to be counted. That's how we add them up in the battalion. Five will get you three days Rest and Recreation. I've got the R&R twice and working on my third. Congratulations—and—sorry."

"Yeah, Leon. You know better than most...."

I pulled off my gear and tried to figure out what, if anything, I could do about being wet and being—

It sounds simple to say I've just killed another human being. Me, by myself. It is impossible to explain the chasm that your soul crosses from that event and the distance that will always remain between you and those blessed souls who have not crossed that dark abyss. I think it is akin to being a ghost. You can see the world, even act in it. You can know other spirits and, perhaps, touch those who are still completely in the physical world. But never again will you be able to be a full part of that world. I had, so quickly, become a dematerialized man. Able to function in the world, able to touch and feel, though always through that shroud, and unable ever after to return to a full presence with those on the other side of that midnight, black fissure.

Likely, I had already killed others. I had certainly called down the thunder and destroyed my sniper. The difference this time, was that only the dead man and I had been dancing. Without completely understanding it, I knew my cowl had become impenetrable.

I had little time for contemplation, although I gave a brief mental nod of thanks to my "Quick Kill" training. Chapman would be expecting me to call, and he did have an impatient side. "Leon, keep everyone on full alert, we might get more company. I need to call Six. Damn, is it just me being wet or is it getting colder?"

"Nah, LT. Weird night, weird weather. The temp is dropping and as wet as you are it's gonna be a chilly night. Gilvey and I will keep the guys focused. Go call the Captain."

"Six, Mickey Six."

"Hey Mickey, nice shooting out there. MBD says you got the trail. He's pissed at his guys for not hitting all of them with their first volley. Glad you made it back in okay."

"Tell MBD I thoroughly share his sentiments. That one was a tad too close for me. Any instructions for the rest of the night?"

"Nothing special. Charlie has a fix on where we are for sure. No sense moving. If he wants us, he's welcome to try. Full alert tonight. Sleeping is not an option."

"As if any of us could close our eyes. If the temperature keeps going down, Charlie will be able to hear our teeth chattering a couple of miles away. We will keep the long nights watch, Mon Capitan. We might engage in shooting some shadows as nervousness is the prevailing sentiment over here next to the jungle."

"Roger, just keep the eyeballs exposed to the night air. Out."

Sergeant Gilvey stopped at my position a few minutes later. "Well, Lieutenant, the men are focused and ready. How are you holding up?"

"Hey, Sarge, piece of cake." Yeah, Like a chocolate cake with thick frosting, after a one year old birthday boy totally destroys it. Not showing fear and tension was a standard approach, but I was grateful that my face was not visible in the dark.

"Any more orders for the guys?" Gilvey asked.

"Nope. Just shoot first and ask for introductions later. Standard 'bush procedures. Captain doesn't want any sleeping tonight. I think the cold will help with that. I know I've got a good case of the shivers." I paused, "Tell me what you think of periodically firing a few rounds to persuade Charlie to infiltrate elsewhere?"

"Hmmm, might help, don't think it can hurt."

"Okay, I told the Captain we're a bit nervous over here, so we're covered that way. I want just you and I doing the shooting. Random about forty to forty-five minutes apart. I'll start in about half an hour. Questions?

"Piece of cake, as I heard a brave, crazy man once say."

I chuckled, "Yeah, more like crazy and stupid, but I won't quibble. Let's do our best to keep everyone awake and healthy."

The rest of the night I shivered in my wet clothes as the temperature continued to drop, and Gilvey and I took turns ripping off a few rounds. There is no way to tell if such a strategy is really successful, but it seemed to me that sometimes the best way to avoid an encounter was to let the other guy know you're there and hope he's not spoiling for a fight. In any event, there was no further contact that night.

The tension eased, as the pre-dawn light became full daylight. A squad from Recon Platoon moved out to check the kill zone of the ambush. A single helicopter thundered in from the direction of Bien Hoa and circled over head while Chapman popped smoke. Someone said it was General Ken Ward's chopper, because it used his Danger Seven Niner call sign. Bastard Brass! Always wanting to check things out after the shooting ends. I shivered and gave it no attention.

"Man, I could sure use something warm to drink right now." I spoke out loud to no one in particular.

"Hey, Mickey. No sweat. You want coffee or hot chocolate?" offered Fat Michael.

"Hell, Michael, I'd just about kill for a cup of hot chocolate, but there's no way to heat it."

"Always a way, LT. Always a way."

This I've got to see, and watched as he reached into his backpack. He pulled out a couple of c-rat packets of hot chocolate, dropped them into his canteen cup, and filled the cup about half full with water. He then pulled out a c-rat can that was less than an inch in height and a small plastic bottle.

He held the can for me to see. "Peanut Butter, alleged." He opened the can. The brown material inside appeared identifiable, but not as peanut butter. He held up the small plastic bottle. "Insect repellant, very alleged." He soaked the brown material with the repellant, produced a bic lighter and set the whole concoction ablaze. As the small fire raged upward he held the cup over the flame. Soon the chocolate liquid bubbled.

"Almost ready, Mickey..."

KRAAACK!

...from the kill zone. Everyone spun towards the sound, searching for the trouble. There was a few seconds pause, and MBD's voice came over the radio, "Got one still alive, sitting there and holding his AK in his lap. Sturmbaugh shot him, but only had one round in his weapon. Damn boys, remember to place a fresh magazine in when you've shot a few. Could save your life. I know Sturmbaugh ain't gonna make that mistake again."

I looked down at my M-16, gripped the magazine, pulled it free and rapped the back of it on my barrel. I determined by the weight that I had most of a full magazine and rapping the back of it ensured that the rounds were fully seated and ready for use. I looked around. A number of others performed the same exercise.

Michael stepped next to me. "Here, Mickey. It may taste like shit, but it's hot."

I accepted the offered cup, raised it to my lips and sipped. Warmth coursed down my throat, into my stomach and extended out into my arms and legs. "Damn, Michael. That's Number One, Son. Thanks."

"Any time, Mickey. Special French recipe and all. Any time."

I laughed. It was good to be alive. The temperature which had dropped to 68 degrees overnight had already begun a fast, steady rise. My wet clothes were drying on my back, my stomach was filled with wonderful, warm liquid, and damn it, I and all those I was in charge of, were alive and well. That was as good as it needed to be.

"Mickey Six, this is Rover Six, over," the radio crackled with MBD's voice. "Just finished checking out the one you got. He was lying flat on his back with his rifle butt still against his shoulder. Looks like you didn't beat him by much. There is also another problem."

"Yeah, MBD and what would that be?"

"Well you fired a full magazine, twenty rounds and I can only count fifteen rounds in his stomach and chest. Mickey, you missed him at least five times. Shoddy marksmanship. Just shoddy."

"Well, sorry about that. I try to measure up to your standards, but I think maybe he fell down before the last five got there. Do you think?

"Well, no matter. You got away with being sloppy this time. Just watch it in the future. Rover Six out."

"Hey, Mickey, MBD must think you are something," Michael spoke almost with reverence. "That's the first time I've ever heard him give even a half ass compliment."

I shrugged. What a world. I'm lucky to have been a few hundredths of a second faster than another man. So he dies and I get respect. Well, don't forget, I also learned Staff Sergeant Lopez' secret use for insect repellant. Shit! 'Nam really sucks.

Chapman called – patrol by day, ambush by night for at least the next four days.

I turned and looked at Gilvey, "No rest for the competent. Damn!"

****

Chapter 5 ~ Search & Destroy

"Hey, Mickey. Rough night, huh?'

"I've had better, Sarge. But I guess ours wasn't as rough as Charlie's."

"Big Rog on that. The men are rather impressed with you. I think right now they'd follow you about anywhere."

"Yeah. I'd love to lead them right to that famous international restaurant, Micky D's and buy 'em all Big Macs and Cokes. Then have their mommies and daddies come pick them up and take them home. Safe!"

"Well, guess we'll both do our best to make that happen. For what it's worth, you are doing pretty damn good so far."

"Merci, Sarge. Question is, can I keep it up?"

I finished refilling my canteens, soaked an OD colored towel, wrung it out and draped it around my neck to help ward off the rapidly rising temperature.

"There's the signal. Let's head 'em up and move 'em out. Rawhide."

Gilvey grinned. I smiled back and we moved to order our platoon for the march. As the rear guard, we had a few extra minutes while the company doubled back on itself and headed into the jungle.

The heat increased. The water in my clothes and towel dehydrated and sweat replaced it. Mosquitoes buzzed and kamikazed. Dirt and grime worked deeper into our pores. The drudgery of working our way through the underbrush, combined with the dehydration of adrenaline, and a leader's worst enemy, boredom, settled itself on all of our shoulders.

The underbrush thinned as we approached a clearing. I saw the column taking a sharp forty-five degree turn about fifty meters ahead. No course change had been announced, so curiosity temporarily replaced apathy as I searched for an answer. A few steps further and I saw a large red tree at the edge of the clearing. Almost forty feet high and thirty wide, it was fascinating because it was a quivering, moving, molten red; never still long enough for my eyes to clearly determine its shape.

I'm not a botanist. In fact, I can basically tell the difference between Christmas trees and tree-trees. I never encountered a flaming bush before, particularly flamus, giganticus. I wondered what God was going to say.

"Hey, Mickey," Fat Michael's voice interrupted my thoughts. " It's red ants. Damn tree is covered. We don't get close to that if we have a choice. Those little bugs are mean bastards. You get a couple down your shirt and you be doing the red ant strip. Funny to watch, but not much joy in the performance."

I found that more awesome than God talking through the flames would have been. I tried several ways to estimate the number of ants it took to cover a tree that size so completely. Millions, certainly, perhaps billions. After a few moments I settled on an answer of fucking boo koo. We moved around them. They are so aggressive that they drop out of trees and attack if you walk under them. The only known protection from their bite was dirty skin. Apparently they preferred their lunch to be five star clean. If your neck was covered in dirt and your sweat cleared a spot, that is where they would bite. Weird for sure. The bite was highly painful and, long term, a bother with swelling.

We continued moving through a series of rice paddies, each defined by a line of trees or heavy brush, often with a canal. The bone dry and hard paddies were easy to walk but tough on feet. Whether filled with water or dry enough to make a camel worry, they all gave a feeling of exposure. At least in the jungle you were never far from something you could hide behind. As with so much in combat, the sword was two edged. Cover for you meant cover for Charlie. Exposure for you same same. The points of transition were the places that really worried me.

These thoughts were on my mind as we approached a brush cluttered, water filled ditch separating our paddy from the next one.

KRACK! KRRRACK! KRAAAAAACK!

Right on cue.

I hesitated for three milliseconds while my internal radar analyzed the sound, received extremely inconsistent readings from the echoes, and yelled, "Cover everybody! Head for the ditch!"

I realized as I yelled, I was already running and had a couple of strides lead on the platoon. I reached the ditch and jumped in without hesitation. Punji sticks be damned. To my relief I landed in shallow water and weeds only.

I crouched and carefully looked over the top of the ditch. I detected nothing. "Michael, keep your guys focused ahead. Leon! You and Gilvey cover down to the right and keep an eye where we came."

"Six, Mickey Six. All secure, covering front back and side."

"Roger Mickey, Keep them awake while we see what we've got. Out"

I looked up and down the line. Men were kneeling in the water, some sitting. No one was sticking their head up for a target. Good discipline. Good idea to keep my own butt low this time. I sat down and tried to get comfortable. With no breeze, the water felt cool and good in the heat. Like sitting in a kiddie pool in your back yard.

George was sitting a few feet away. "Hey Mickey. Yesterday you had gooks shooting at your balls and didn't get excited. Today, a couple of rounds and you were like a rabbit for cover. You scared today or something."

"Nah, George. Yesterday I could tell where the bullets were going. Today they had a funny echo and I wasn't sure. Better part of valor and all that."

"Yeah, but damn Mickey you were sure in a hurry."

"Well, I figure the best way to not get shot is, if they fire at you and miss the first shot, be somewhere else before they fire the second shot. And, best be somewhere else as fast as possible."

"Roger that, Man. I think you ain't never gonna get shot."

"Not if they don't get me with the first one, George. Not unless it's that first one."

"Mickey Six, Six."

"Oui Mon Capitan. What've you got?"

"Kelly thinks he's spotted some movement on the other side of the paddy in the heavy stuff, headed down your way. Fire some interdiction. Keep alert for any flanking action."

"Roger, fire in the hole in thirty seconds."

I stood up in a crouch and risked a quick look over the top. Nothing, absolutely nothing moved. I bent back down considering possibilities.

"Mickey Five this is your Six. Gilvey, Captain is concerned about getting flanked. Spread as much as you can and keep an eye."

"Michael, three rounds starting at the highest bush straight out and working right. George, One magazine semi-auto working left to right starting where Michael marks it. I'll work right to left. Moyer, be ready with the 60 to burn any reaction we get. Okay, on my signal."

The clock in my head reached twenty-six seconds. I checked, Michael and George ready, Moyer set.

"Three—two—one—Let 'er rip!" Michael had his first round off before "er" was out of my mouth, the second while rip was still echoing and the third was well on its way before the first one hit. George and I took our first shots too close together to hear any difference. We both proceeded with rapid fire single shots into the underbrush. Our magazines emptied quickly.

I peered at the underbrush trying to locate any movement. Nothing. Time to get down. Anyone over there sure knows where I'm standing. I knelt down.

KRACK!

One round high and left. Not too damned high and left. I grabbed the mike.

"Six, Mickey. One return round, closer than comfort allows, but no harm. I think it was from the left of our shots, but can't tell for sure."

"Roger Mickey. We have some definite company. Hold and stay awake. Calling for Arty."

I sat down in the cool water. Good! Let the bastards suck on some eight-inchers.

"Pass the word. Captain is calling fire support. Heads down and eyes wide. Looks like we're going to party here for awhile."

We sat and waited. No nice satisfying explosions. We continued waiting. Explosions continued not happening.

"Mickey, Six. No howitzers today. Brass doesn't think a few sniper rounds merits firing expensive howitzer rounds. We'll be here for a little yet. Send out a few warning rounds every five minutes or so. Let's make sure Charlie knows we are armed and actually can fire our weapons."

"Roger Six, Dontcha just love them fucking REMFs?"

"Amen, Mickey. Out."

The many fine features of the M-16 rifle include light weight and almost no recoil. This means it is easy to put your left hand under the barrel, reverse your hold on the pistol grip with your fingers on the back of the grip and your thumb on the trigger, raise the weapon over your head and fire behind you on a fairly level plain. This is the recommended method of not exposing yourself while sitting in water in a ditch. Sufficient to send Charles a 'Do Not Disturb' message.

I had sent five messages and was contemplating a sixth, when the Captain passed orders to move out.

A greater than normal tension existed because we all knew we had company in the countryside, but the heat and tedium of the march, with no further contact, soon brought us back to boredom. My mind wrestled with the vexing idea of how long I could continue to do my job and take care of my people. I posed the question to Problem Solving Central, At what point will I finally screw it up because I'm tired, or not really as competent as some people believe, or just plain run out of luck?

After humping through one and a half rice paddies, I received a response. What, now you want predictions. I do hard core advice, intelligent stuff, not crystal ball visions. Nobody gets to know what comes next. You just need to focus on now and let later care for itself.

Great; ask for advice and get sarcasm. Let's try phrasing the question differently. What should I focus on and what should I watch out for to give my men the best chance of surviving?

At the edge of the rice paddy, the Captain called a halt and passed the word to settle in and have supper in shifts. In an hour we would move across the next paddy to our ambush site for the night. After getting everyone situated, I sat down and pulled out my c-rats, one mediocre boned chicken, and one great fruit cocktail. The chicken was pretty putrid but at least it was moist. The fruit cocktail syrup was nectar. Never mind I wouldn't touch the stuff back in the world.

As I finished the chicken, a message arrived from Problem Solving Central. Okay, you need to focus on two things. First, keep building the platoon team. Individual heroics are fine, but team gives the best chance to keep the most guys alive.

Makes sense, what's number two on the list?

Just keep pushing every element of the team to do it right. Never let up on doing the things that need to be done, from clean weapons, to water discipline, to fire control. Whatever needs doing, keep them doing it.

What the hell kind of advice is that! I ain't Superman. They ain't Batman, Robin, and Spiderman. Damn, my whole question is when does it break down? What will warn me when it's leaving the tracks?

Point is you get no warning. You just fight as hard and as long as you can to keep them on track and deal with it when it doesn't work anymore.

Oh Shit. Thanks so much for the help. Any stray thoughts on what to watch out for?

Easy, only two things to watch for. Charlie in front of you and the Brass behind you.

No shit, Sherlock. Got any I don't know about? Didn't think so. Damn, second hand, surplus reject, P.S.C. I knew I should have gone top shelf, but no, not me.

The order to move across the paddy and set the ambush interrupted the diatribe on my brain's limitations—thankfully.

A small hootch nestled in the trees. After securing it, the ambush was set up facing out for 360 degrees around it. We settled in as the night dropped down on us like a hungry black cat on a small mouse. I tried to set cosmic questions aside and catch some needed shuteye, but sleep did not come easy. The nagging questions, how do I keep on getting the job done, and how can I keep my men safe, were not going gently anywhere. After a few hours, I finally drifted into a light sleep.

It took only my R.T.O.'s whisper, and I was instantly, fully awake.

"What've we got?"

"Couple of gooks coming in from the other side. Captain says alert everyone and maintain fire control."

"Rog. You pass the word left. I'll cover right," I whispered back."

Time compressed and extended. Each second contained a minute. Each minute allowed enough heartbeats for a month, or a good night with Vanessa. Keep your mind where it belongs! Something feels funny about this, dammit! Too long. This is taking way too long.

KRACKITA! KRACKITA!

"Damn, AKs!"

WHOOM! BRACKITA! BRACKITA!

Shit! No way I should hear AKs before we trigger. Not right! Damn!

WHOOMP! WHOOMP! WHOOMP!

"Fucking mortars! Incoming! Incoming!" I yelled. "Cover! Get your heads down! Incoming!"

WHOOM! WHOOM! WHOOM!

A portion of the hootch blew into tiny straw bits.

WHOOMP! WHOOMP! WHOOMP!

"Incoming! More on the way in people! Keep covered!" I shouted. Yeah right! How do you duck what you can't see? C'mon, Mon Capitan! Get the artillery support rolling!

WHOOM! WHOOM! WHOOM!

Debris showered me. The hootch was gone.

WHOOMP! WHOOMP! WHOOMP!

"Shit! Incoming! Incoming!"

In the momentary stillness, I heard distant thunder, ever so faint. Damn, Chapman! Way to go!

"Arty's on the way! Keep covered. Captain will get it on them fast."

WHOOM! WHOOM! WHOOM!

The latest rounds slammed in, followed by sickening screams.

Damn you, Charlie! You mother fucking bastard! I'm gonna make you pay for this!

SHREEEEE— WHOOOM! WHOOOM! WHOOM!

The flash from the howitzer shells and the concussion from the explosions five hundred meters away, felt like hell's gates had blown open and we were about to be sucked in.

Distant thunder again. Wait for it.

SHREEEEE, WHOOOM! WHOOOM! WHOOM!

Hell moved closer as Chapman had adjusted the shell's target 100 meters closer.

"Charlie's leaving for home and mama-san! He doesn't want to fuck with the big guns. Keep alert but injury reports pronto. Before the next salvo guys! What've we got?"

I could hear Lt. Hall giving similar orders to his troops. I knew from the earlier screams we had casualties. Please God? No dead and not any of my men. Please?

The reports were quick and, for me, good. One man, slight shrapnel wounds only, and Doc was on him."

SHREEEEE, WHOOOM! WHOOOM! WHOOOM!

Hell felt close enough to smell Satan's breath. Likely that would be it for the night though.

Mon Capitan has big brass ones. I knew he would have dropped those eight inch enemas on our pointy heads if he had to. I wondered if I had the cojones to do that. I hoped I would never, ever have to find out.

"Mickey, Six. Sitrep. Make it march."

"Six, one with minor shrapnel in his shoulder for first report. Double checking everything. Let you know if I have more."

"Roger. Keep alert. The bastards may want to party some more. Out."

Kelly had two seriously injured. Hall had two with minor damage and one who looked like his leg was gone. I had the one. Charlie: six; the Good Guys goose egg. We were not happy campers for sure. The dust-off came in at first light. My guy and one of Hall's stayed. Four were pulled out. One was on the maybe/maybe not list, which did not improve anyone's attitude.

We gathered around Chapman, who showed the strain in his face and voice.

"We fucked up. No more moving into the ambush site with daylight left. From here on we move in at the last moment. We'll have to get things set up quicker. I requested stand down, but battalion assigned us another search and destroy and another 'bush tonight."

"Shit!"

"Wonderful!"

"Great!"

The chorus was quick, and pissed.

"Yeah, I know guys. Welcome to the United States Army. Anyway, I'm changing the order of march. Mickey, take point."

"First takes the rear. Kelly, take the middle. Any questions?"

"Hell, Sir, that's not right. Third should have point. Are you blaming me for last night's casualties? That's just not right!" Kelly sputtered.

"Oh hell, Kelly. Give it a rest. The order will be as I choose, and I ain't interested in one of your hissy fits. Any other questions?—Good. Let's move."

The Brass had chosen a patrol path through jungle as thick and dense as D.I. Tillman's brain. High density for sure. Movement was slow, tension high, boredom was not a concern. Our anger increased when word came that Private Edwards had not survived his wounds. The news upset everyone in the whole company; everyone except Lt. Kelly. His only comment was, "Damn, short another troop." I could not fathom why, but he alone seemed disinterested. Perhaps it was just his way of dealing with it, but I knew in his place I would have extreme difficulty holding it together and doing my job. He hardly acknowledged the death as a fact, let alone deigned any reaction.

I decided my earlier suspicion, that I would not much like Kelly was going to be fact.

Coyote took point and we moved into the jungle. Our anger was palpable, and the heat of the day, the thickness of the underbrush did not diminish it. We wanted to find Charlie and make him pay. An intense desire for vengeance can focus the mind in a wonderful way. We slipped quietly and smoothly through the jungle. Every man in tune with comrades and surroundings. We were on crusade. Our only thought, find and kill the bastards who had hurt us. Send them screaming to hell, our strongest desire and need.

Unfortunately, like the crusaders of earlier centuries, we learned to get used to disappointment. Charlie did not want to be found and that, damn it, was the way it would be. We made no contact and found no sign of Victor Charles. Chapman called a halt for lunch and assembled his officers at his location.

"Damn, Mickey, you've made great time this morning. We've covered two thirds of our assigned route and done it fairly quietly. That's good work, but I want to slow up and try something else. We are not going to get to the ambush early today."

"Thanks, Captain. I agree about not being an early bird, but the guys are really pissed and that anger has been working for us. What do you think, John?"

Hall responded. "We've had no problem keeping up. Everyone's on edge after last night, but they're handling it. No early arrival is solid with me. What did you have in mind, Captain?"

"About five hundred meters up the trail is a nice area for a platoon size 'bush. I want to go by there and have Third Platoon fall out and set up for anyone who might be trailing us. First and Second will continue on about five hundred meters and circle back to act as a mobile response force. Might catch Charlie playing his games, and if we get nothing it should at least use up most of the afternoon and let us slide to our designated ambush site right on time. Any questions?"

"All right, Captain. You can count on the Third!" Kelly enthused.

"I'm counting on everybody, Kelly, but your enthusiasm is appreciated. Make sure your guys let Charlie get into the kill zone before opening up. If anybody is following, I want their ass."

"Okay. We'll start in thirty minutes."

I wolfed down a greasy can of spaghetti and meatballs, at least that is what the label said, while I filled my platoon in. They were all excited by the possibilities in the plan. I finished the last lump of alleged meat, took a long swig of warm water, and gave my orders for the march. "Each of you make sure that all weapons have full magazines, all gear is muffled for noise, and check each man to be sure the heat isn't getting to him. If we get to rock and roll, make it count."

The five hundred meters to the drop off point for Third went smoothly and quickly. Chapman had picked well. The path went through a small clearing, with five foot high mounds on one side that offered perfect cover for an ambush. We slowed as we went through the clearing and slowed further as we re-entered the jungle. Third platoon peeled off and made a quick half circle through the jungle to the mounds. First Platoon closed quickly on us and we resumed our pace. Anyone following should not have observed any change in speed from the rear of the column.

We stayed on course for a few hundred meters and Chapman ordered the column to reverse and double back, placing my platoon in the rear position. About one hundred meters from the clearing we stopped, and Chapman moved First Platoon on line so that thirty men would approach the clearing side by side. Second Platoon remained a reaction force to go where needed.

Slowly, quietly, we moved toward the clearing. We established a perimeter with Third and Second Platoons completely covering two sides of the clearing. The set up was near perfect. All we needed was for Charlie to cooperate and stroll into the ambush.

We waited—quiet and deadly.

Still, we waited—tense and dangerous.

Yet, we waited—an angry powder keg.

Finally, we waited—frustrated and disgusted.

Chapman gave it an hour. "Delta Six, listen up everybody. The plan was well executed. You all did your parts the way I wanted, but no rubber cigar today. We'll head for our site. Third will slide through and take point. Second in the middle, and First will cover the rear. Pull it together and start moving in ten."

I looked at Gilvey, who said, "Some days you get the bear, some days the bear gets you, and some fucking days there ain't no fun at all!"

I nodded. "Yeah, but today I wanted to fuck the bear real bad!"

"I agree with the sentiment, Mickey. Remember, the day is not over yet."

"Yeah! There's always hope."

At the moment the revenge burning inside me demanded more than hope. Blood and scattered enemy body parts at a minimum were the requirement.

We moved to the ambush site without incident, arriving with just enough time to scope it out. My platoon covered the rice paddy we crossed, moving into the site. We set up quickly and settled in for the night.

Once satisfied that we were arranged to properly trigger and fight if necessary, I sat down with my back against a tree and a good view of my sector, and faced my anger. Another American killed. One of ours had to be paid for with twenty of theirs. One in my company, I wanted forty of theirs. One in my platoon—No! I'm not going there. I won't allow that to happen. Thinking about it deepened my rage. The simple possibility of a man under my command dying was territory I was willing to leave alone. Definitely a land I had no inclination to visit. P.S.C. whispered, There is always a price.

The rigors of the day eventually claimed their toll. I lay down, placed my M-16 close to hand and closed my eyes to rest.

BOOM! KRACKITA! BOOM!

Instantly awake, I recognized the sector where the action was going down as First Platoon's. Good John! Get some back! I scanned my sector. No activity, everything was under control.

"Mickey, sitrep. Six over."

"Six, Mickey. All calm, no trouble here. Over."

The night reverted to the unnatural, super quiet which always filled the air, along with the acrid smell of burnt powder, when the shooting stopped. After about twenty minutes, word came that First had triggered on a group of six of the enemy. They estimated that four had gone down for good.

The next morning there were no bodies, just three blood trails. Chapman called in a body count of four, and we went about the business of the day. I had a moment to talk with John Hall.

"Hey man, at least you gave them a little back."

"Yeah. It don't mean nothin' though. Never will."

Simply being close to such immense pain, frightened me to the roots of my being. Oh please God! Don't let me or John ever lose one of our own. Wounded is bad enough! All I could think to say was, "Well, it still won't mean nothin' but I intend to make sure payback is a real mother fucker!"
John gave a half smile and nodded. "Damn! Let's do that for sure! I'm with you Amigo. Always!"

We turned and got our platoons ready to move.

We searched all through that sweltering day and the next. My rage did not diminish. Contact consisted of three episodes of sniper fire with no injuries. Ambush that night was cold and the following night my platoon triggered on two VC with no bodies in evidence the next morning.

I joined Chapman at his command post as he was finishing his morning discussion with the Brass.

"Yes, Sir. I understand, Sir. But Colonel, we've spent virtually ten straight days doing search and destroy all day and ambush all night, with only about three hours of stand down. I think my men really need a break—Yes, Sir, but—I know, Sir, it's just that—Sir, I—I'll follow orders, Sir, you know that. Yes, Sir, Delta Six, out."

"Well, Gentlemen," Chapman gave a twisted grin, "your buttholes should be getting used to it by now, but we're getting reamed with the same old, same old again."

We did not know it, but before the next twenty-four hours were over, we would long for just the same old.

Third took point. We moved to join up with Alpha Company as part of a blocking maneuver to deny VC access to Saigon. We struggled through the underbrush for an hour and anticipated linking with A Company within another thirty minutes. I paused next to a tree and reached for my canteen.

BOOM! KRACKITA, KRACKITA! BOOM!

I hugged the tree for protection and remained standing while my men hit the ground and we all searched for the place to return fire. No immediate spots were apparent. The firing was at the front of the column.

"Third walked part way into an ambush. The Captain wants a sitrep."

"Six, Mickey Six. No current enemy activity on the rear. Ready to move where you need us."

"Right, Mickey. Take your platoon out a hundred meters on the left flank, form a skirmish line and roll up the column. See if you can flank these bastards!"

"Roger Six. On our way."

"Leon, take the lead. A hundred meters out we go on line and roll into their flank. Move it now! Michael, you follow with me. Gilvey, take the rear and maintain contact with the company line as much as possible. Let's move, people!"

Leon's squad moved rapidly past me. My pride in these virtuoso warriors throbbed inside my heart and promptly collided with my fear for their safety. Not now. Just do the job. Safety isn't part of this equation. I thought it was nice of Problem Solving Central to kick in without being asked. Then it was time to move, and I shifted into full combat leader gear.

We encountered no enemy. Within minutes, I gave the command to turn on line and advance. The firing continued.

"Six, Mickey. We're on line and moving down the side of the company now. Let all the good guys know we're coming by."

"Roger, Mickey. Go get the bastards!"

We moved forward quickly. Every weapon was locked and loaded; every man was intensely alert and alive, every second was explosive. Every sense I possessed sought the first sign of enemy to attack. The firing continued out to our front.

Leon was the first to rock and roll. A controlled burst from his M-16 and a shout, "There they are!" caused most of the platoon to erupt in full scatter and spray mode.

"Watch your fire control, people! Shoot at targets, not underbrush. Controlled bursts. Keep it going and keep moving!" My shouts mingled with similar yells from Leon, Michael, and Gilvey.

In the thick brush it was impossible to tell what we were really going against. We received some return fire but it was not heavy. We pressed forward.

Charlie had the choice: turn and face us directly or fade into the jungle. It looked like he was going to fade. We kept moving. Fire continued in our direction, although sporadically. I looked to my left. There were two Vietnamese corpses. 'Good!' I reached for the radio to call Chapman.

WHOOMPITA! WHOOMPITA! WHOOMPITA!

The deep cough of a .50 caliber machine gun is one of the few sounds which truly frighten me. I was scared past defecation. "Cover! Hit the dirt!" I yelled as I took my own advice. My men had not really needed my direction. They all hugged the ground tight. Tighter than they would any women you could name or envision.

"Leon! Michael! See if you can find that bastard, but keep everyone down."

"Six, Mickey. We were making good progress, but they just opened up a fifty on us and we're stalled for the moment."

"Micky, get it cleared ASAP! We need you to move forward and get these assholes to back off. Keep it moving! Out!"

A fifty caliber machine gun bullet is one half inch thick, several inches long and propelled by enough powder to literally rip a human body in half. I am not fond of being shot at by anything, but a fifty was particularly dicey in my mind. In fact, as mentioned, it scared me seriously. I did not want to move, but duty was calling loud and clear. As much as I wanted to tell duty to go to hell, that was not an option.

"Speak up people! What have we got?"

"I think I've got them located, Mickey," Leon yelled! "Hang on a minute and we'll try a blooper enema."

WHOOMP! ...WHOOMP! ...WHOOMP!

BOOM! ...BOOM! ...BOOM!

"All right people, pick it up and move it forward" I shouted! "But careful," I added, sounding facetious even to myself.

My platoon rose and moved cautiously forward, everyone strained for the first hint of anything from the enemy. Visibility in the brush was incredibly poor. We moved a meter, two, five . .

WHOOMPITA! WHOOMPITA! WHOOMPITA!

Everyone rapidly re-acquainted themselves with the good earth as the thunder continued. Problem Solving Central screamed, Focus! Listen to the sound so you can tell where it is.

You listen, I'm ducking—No wait—Right!

WHOOMPITA! WHOOMPITA! WHOOMPITA!

Focus, focus—there! Eleven o'clock precisely. Seventy-five—No, ninety meters.

"Michael! Over here with that field mortar now," I screamed!

Michael jumped up without hesitation, ran to my side and dropped next to me.

"Target there!" I pointed. "Ninety meters, three rounds, bracket short and long. Do it!"

WHOOMP!... WHOOMP!... WHOOMP!

BOOM! ...BOOM! ...BOOM!

As the third blooper round exploded, I rose to a kneeling position and added twenty rounds from my M-16 down the same line. I hit the dirt as soon as my magazine emptied and reached for a replacement. Through all of the dust and din, I heard some yells of pain and some Vietnamese sing song. I experienced a moment's satisfaction and Problem Solving Central broke in, Time to change tactics. Move forward in force rapidly.

"Enough games, people," I screamed! "Let's get up and get after those sons of bitches. Move in on them fast! Let's go!"

We swept forward rapidly, firing as we went. Fire control was not an issue. Within minutes, Gilvey yelled, "Hold up! We're in contact with our forward element. Hold up!"

"Six, Mickey.We seem to have moved them off and are linked with the forward element. Holding in place for further orders."

"Roger Mickey. Hold where you are and secure your perimeter. Out!"

I ordered the platoon to pull in tight and swing back a little to create a skirmish line to protect our flank, took a deep breath and whispered, Thanks for the miracle, God. No one hit by the fifty. Phew! I know ninety percent of rounds fired in combat don't hit anyone, but it takes only one of the big babies to ruin your day. So, thanks.

Leon walked up to me carrying a large heavy object. "Hey Mickey, we didn't get any bodies, but this fucker won't kill any more GI's." He dropped the fifty caliber machine gun in front of me and grinned.

I matched his grin. "Full report on what you did find with it."

"Two heavy blood trails and some ammo. Not much else. That was good shooting between you and Michael. I missed the bastards with my try."

"Not to worry, Leon. You hit them often enough and we managed to duck everything they threw with that baby. The Captain will be pleased. We may be in for a long afternoon and night. Keep your guys sharp."

I hate it when my predictions come true. We had about thirty tense minutes of waiting while Chapman discussed our situation with the Brass. Then Charlie made the discussion moot.

BOOM! KRACKITA, KRACKITA! BOOM!

They hit us from three sides—simultaneously. A full scale assault is not Charlie's usual fare, but he tried hard to lay a seven course meal on us. One of the first courses hit the flank my platoon was guarding. Fortunately, we were ready and rejected the first course as not up to appropriate culinary standards.

Actually, we were lucky. They came at us heaviest where we were set up the best, right at one of my M-60 machine gun emplacements. Moyer demonstrated his true combat skills with continuous short bursts of six rounds each distributed in a pattern designed to discourage the desire to approach closely.

I recalled training on the M-60 where we were encouraged to use the phrase, "Fire a burst of six" as a mental timer for how long to depress the trigger and fire only six rounds. It was not easy to do under training conditions. To do it consistently in combat was impressive and highly useful. Combined with excellent fire control, and direction by Gilvey and Leon, we repulsed the first attack on our side fairly easily.

The attacks on our center and the far side lasted a bit longer but were also defeated. During the lull I called Chapman. "Six, Gilvey has suggested that we pull back a little tighter and orient around to our rear a bit more in case Charlie swings around that way. I agree. We're vulnerable there."

"Mickey, pull back, but do it quickly. We don't want you moving when Charlie comes back."

"Sergeant Gilvey, Captain says it's a roger to pull in and around to cover the rear. How about we plant a few claymores real quick to give Charlie a hearty hello on his next visit. Make it march though!"

As Gilvey and Leon started moving their troops, I motioned to Fat Michael. "Michael, bring your guys back on line to match up with Leon's platoon. Drop a claymore or two if you've got some good spots, but move it along. We're expecting Charlie back any time!"

The men moved quickly and efficiently to their new positions. This was good because Charlie wasted no time in launching a second assault, and he did swing around to where we had been vulnerable. Effective, controlled fire and a couple of claymores blowing up in his face persuaded Charles to back off after a somewhat limited assault.

Chapman passed the word that we had apparently run into the battalion that we and Alpha Company had been looking for. Alpha was now moving to assist us, and we were to dig in and hold. The cavalry was coming.

I spread the word to my platoon and emphasized fire control. Re-supply of ammunition or anything else was unlikely before the next morning. We managed to slip a few more claymores out before the tropical night blanketed us in total darkness.

The phrase "alone and friendless in the woods..." kept running through my mind. I threw the situation to Problem Solving Central just to stop the repetition.

Okay, what else can I do to help my guys make it through the night?

The answer came back far too quickly. Nada. Keep them alert and watch for probes throughout the night, but you've done what you can and your guys are good enough to handle it.

I was too worried and tired to dispute that, so I followed the advice and warned the guys to stay awake and be ready for probes. I then settled in for what promised to be a lengthy night. The probes started shortly after that.

I guess Charlie had gained a lot of practice over the years at sneaking up on people in the dark. He was quite good at it. Fortunately, we were a seasoned company and Charlie rarely got close enough to do damage without drawing fire or a grenade lobbed onto his head. One VC in Hall's sector found one of the claymores they had placed and picked it up to turn it around facing the Americans. This was an old trick, which was frequently successful. On this occasion, the mine detonated in his face.

The soldier who popped the mine was overheard muttering, "Guess the joke's on him!"

Once again, time played its shape shifting game. The probes were incessant and when you thought they had been going on for hours, a glance at your wristwatch revealed only thirty minutes had passed. The night and the mayhem dragged on, like a snail climbing a steep hill.

For six hours it dragged on. My nerves were well past frayed. My eyeballs burned from exhaustion and the constant effort to peer through the almost impenetrable darkness.

Every sound, every movement sensed or imagined clenched my heart and pounded my mind with fears both irrational and rational. I felt sure we would never see daylight again as living beings.

Then it stopped. Right at 0300 it stopped. At first we simply thought Charlie was taking a break to reload. The quiet stretched on. Well, he works at night, maybe it's his dinner break. At 0330, hope he eats well and takes a nice nap. At 0400, maybe he has other plans and is moving out on us. At 0430—hope we'll see the sun rise.

"Mickey, Six. Charlie may have left or he may be preparing to try an all out to overrun us. Get your guys ready to go full scale if necessary."

"Six, Mickey. I hope he bugged out, but the rumble in my gut says the evening's party is not finished. We'll be ready."

I passed the word to load fresh magazines and get ready to rock and roll, 'cause the thinking was Charlie would ask for one more dance.

0500 still quiet. What time would I hit us with a full scale attack if I was Charlie? Not dawn, light isn't my friend. Now? I don't know. Maybe he's bugged out.

0530 came and strain as I might I could sense no one out there waiting to hit us. I decided to just deal with it when and if it happened. I took a slug of water from my canteen.

KRACKITA! KRACKITA! BOOM! BOOM! KRACKITA! BOOM!

Deal with it, stupid! Here it is!

They came not like a thief in the night, but erupted like Steppenwolf destroying the stage. They came with everything they had, and we threw all we had at them. Fire control was not the operational word.

Claymores and grenades showered indiscriminate shrapnel. AK47s and M-16s played their dueling duets. M-60s and Chi-Com machine guns and fiftys too, spit continuous venom. Screams sounded the same in American or Vietnamese. Armageddon had nothing on us.

They surged towards us, and we dumped all we had to stop them. There was no point in trying to control my platoon. It was simply fight and kill or die. I flipped to full auto and tried to put my rounds where I thought they would help. Even firing short bursts I went through magazine after magazine.

They never quite penetrated our sector, thanks largely to our judicious use of claymores. First and Third did not fare as well and some fighting went hand to hand.

It continued on and on. I felt no passage of time. Then suddenly, miraculously it stopped. The storm of pounding noise and lightning bolts of tracers just stopped.

No one knew why, but it stopped. In the deafening, jagged silence we all scrambled in our minds to assure ourselves that we were alive. It was not quite 0600.

I shook my head and hollered for sitreps. After a moment, realizing no sound issued from my dry, parched throat, I took a quick sip from my canteen called for the reports, issued orders to reload and get ready for another attack and passed on my reports to Chapman.

With no understanding of how I knew, I knew this particular fight was over. In an hour we had pre-dawn light. By 0715 the sun we thought to never see again ascended over the horizon. I thanked God for its blazing, majestic, fiery, orange beauty whose sight meant we lived.

A cursory and limited search revealed only three enemy bodies in our sector. The total enemy dead left behind was fifteen. We had eight seriously wounded and a couple dozen minor injuries. Unbelievable!

"Mickey, Six. We have a half hour hike over to a rice paddy for pick up and a ride back to base. We're headed for Quon Loi. I want you to take point and lead us home."

"Hey, Six! Happy news, and a big roger!'

"Yeah, Mickey. The other news is my replacement is here. This was my last op."

I gave no response. We were going in and my universe tilted askew yet again. I had no idea what a tremendous shift it would become.

****

Chapter 6 ~ The Michelin – Not Just a Tire

As our choppers circled the landing strip at Quan Loi, I struggled with mixed emotions. I felt relief, even happiness, at coming in from the field to the relative safety and easier life of the base camp. Sadness over Captain Chapman leaving and concern whether his replacement would be as good, mingled with gratitude that I had such a good commander break me in. Pride over the performance of my platoon and my part in that performance entwined with the knowledge that a lengthy, dangerous path lay ahead. I faced an enormous task of continuing to complete the mission while protecting my men. Skill and effort would not be sufficient in that regard. We would have to remain lucky.

My chopper settled to the ground. I hopped down to the tarmac. Lady Luck, keep with me while I'm here and I won't bother you the rest of my life. I wondered if the same appeal to God would work, but decided to reserve that one, for when my luck ran out.

For a change, we had a ride waiting to take us to the company area. We were assigned to cover the perimeter to the west of the south gate. The deuce and a halves pulled to a stop and we moved into tents behind the bunkers, actually three foot deep foxholes reinforced with a few sandbags, we would man at night.

At the command tent, Lt. Kelly was already talking to our new leader. My first impression of the Captain was that he was short. This was a bit worrisome because if you're short to me, you're damn short, and really short people tend to have ego problems.

"Hello, Captain." I saluted. "I'm the Platoon Leader for Second Platoon." I was somewhat relieved to see that the thickset fellow, with a ruddy complexion who would be leading us, was at least as tall as me.

"Yes, Mickey Six." He snapped, "I've been hearing about you. Right up front, let's have an understanding. I want my officers to follow orders precisely and immediately. I'm sure you have no problem with that."

"No, Sir." I paused. Before either of us could say more, Lt. Hall and Lt. Ivan Rudenski joined the group.

I had not met Rudenski, who was Platoon Leader for Fourth Platoon, the heavy weapons platoon. They operated the 81 millimeter mortars in a support role whenever the company was within range. Since the 81 mike mikes had a range of only four thousand meters, they were rarely of use.

Rudenski, whose call sign was Oscar Six, was not noted for expending effort unnecessarily. Frequently, his platoon sat around doing little, and thus, they were not very popular with the rest of us grunts. They were considered near REMFs.

Captain Larry Fielder proved to be as short with his words as with his stature.

"Gentlemen, I want to assure you that I am not a cherry. This is my second tour. I was a Platoon Leader on my first tour; even got a Purple Heart. I know the territory. If you follow my lead, as you should, we will do fine. If you don't follow my lead, you will not be fine. Any questions?"

Fielder sent us all back to our platoons. First and Second Platoons drew perimeter duty for the first night.

Gilvey, Leon and Fat Michael were standing together talking when I returned.

Gilvey looked up and said, "Hey, Mickey, what's the scoop on the new CO?"

"Well on the plus side, he made it clear he isn't a cherry. Second tour; Purple Heart on his first."

"Second tour is good," said Fat Michael.

"Yeah, but you get a Purple Heart for being unlucky enough or dumb enough to stand in the wrong spot at the wrong time." sneered Leon.

"You ought to know, Leon. You've got two yourself," laughed Michael.

"Any other good info, Mickey?" Gilvey asked.

"Not much. He seems to be hard core on discipline and following orders. He didn't have much to say, other than we've got perimeter tonight along with First."

"Well, shit on my parade. We need that like we need leeches sucking on our ass!" Leon spat.

"Hey man, considering where we've spent the last eight or ten nights it ain't all that bad." I offered.

Leon immediately calmed down. Gilvey noted we had some time for rest and recreation during the afternoon.

"Yeah, guys, hot lunches, cold showers, and a little R&R. C'mon; life is good. Sarge, I want to inspect weapons and readiness at 1145, then lunch and rest. We don't have to be on the perimeter until 1900, after supper. Everybody set? Let's do it."

Perimeter duty is a contest between boredom and plain sleepiness against the real possibility of sappers slipping through the barbwire and slitting your throat. In the early years of the war Charlie had gained a well deserved reputation as an excellent sapper. However, the Unites State Army had come up with "Starlite" technology that took advantage of all available light and significantly enhanced the soldier's ability to see at night. The rumor was that we would get Starlite scopes for field use any time now. Each sector on the perimeter had one to use.

At 0100 Sergeant Gilvey shook me awake. "Hey, Mickey, your turn to check the perimeter. We've got a sapper coming through the wire about fifty meters inside the front gate. The guys are watching him with the scope. They're taking bets on what time he will reach the third wire."

"Yeah? What's the time spread?"

"0230 to 0415. Personally, I don't think he'll get there before 0400."

"Damn barbaric to be betting on it."

"True, but it don't make a lot of difference whether we shoot him now or shoot him later. So I guess the guys should have their fun."

I shrugged. "I don't like it. Seems pretty de-humanizing. You behave as your enemy, you become your enemy."

Gilvey looked at me with sad eyes and said, "I think you're right Mickey, but our job is to accomplish the mission and try to keep them alive. Keeping them fully sane is not something we can deal with. Hell, I'm not sure we can stay sane ourselves."

Such unexpected depth of feeling shocked me into silence. I shook my head, patted Gilvey on the shoulder, mumbled "Yeah," and moved out to check the bunkers.

I went to the bunker closest to the gate first. Leon and three others were talking quietly and taking turns with the scope. I slipped down into the bunker.

"Leon, what have we got?"

"Hey Mickey! We have one genuine VC sapper. He's down by the second wire. Looks like he's carrying about fifty pounds of explosives, plus your standard issue AK47. He's working slowly but surely towards us. We figure to waste him as soon as he's through the third wire. Want to bet on the exact time?"

"I'll pass Leon. Are we sure he's alone and not the advance for more troops?"

"I've checked out as far as the scope carries. It looks like a single sapper to me."

"Okay. I trust your judgment, Leon. I would just as soon shoot him now and be done with it."

"Hell, Mickey, there'd just be one more section of wire to go through to pick up the body in the morning. Besides, the guys have all laid bets. Let them have their fun."

"What worries me is that the guys think of it as fun. Let me have the scope a minute. I want to check this guy out."

It only took a few seconds looking through the scope for me to spot the sapper. The image in the scope was a ghostly green, but you could see clearly enough to know what you were looking at. I observed a small Vietnamese man, wearing only a loincloth and Ho Chi Minh sandals, crawl on his belly up to the second wire, turn slowly onto his back, shift the explosives he carried, lay his AK47 on the ground next to him, and slowly start under the second wire. You poor dumb bastard! Dead and you don't even know it. I felt a bit queasy but suppressed it. This is war. He is clearly the enemy. Too bad for him.

I handed the scope to Leon. "Watch him carefully and keep checking out beyond the wire. I'm going to check the rest of the perimeter. I'll be back in thirty minutes."

I moved quickly through all of the bunkers in my sector. Everyone was alert and wanted to know about the sapper. Nothing else appeared to be happening, so I moved back to Leon's bunker. It was 0200.

I decided to stand the death watch with the men who would do the actual shooting. For the next hour we quietly took turns watching a man crawl to his certain death. We had little to say.

At 0310 the sapper cleared the third wire. I picked up the radio. "Midnight Six this is Delta Mickey Six in Sector Nine."

"Yeah Six, what have you got?"

"We have one sapper in the wire. Fire in the hole in a few minutes. No other VC appear to be in the neighborhood."

I repeated the call to Delta Six's R.T.O., and gave Leon the go ahead. "Head shot Leon. Don't hit the explosives."

"Right Mickey. Pop the flare guys."

WHOOMP. FLASH. BANG! BANG!

It was over that quickly. Leon was a deadly shot, and we had one body to clean up in the morning.

I should be more disgusted; but one enemy dead and none of mine. Okay by me.

A skeleton, half his head gone, took his place with the 'Trail' in a growing group of ghastly, green ghosts.

Coyote won the pool.

"Lieutenant! I want to talk to you. Now!" Fielder seemed a touch displeased.

"Yes Sir! What can I help you with?" I responded in a smart military fashion.

"I don't need any smart ass stuff from you. Your platoon almost screwed up last night. What the hell were you doing out there?"

"Sir? We had one sapper try to get through the wire. We waxed him. How's that almost screwing up?"

"Damn it, Lieutenant, your men didn't get him until he was through the third wire. A little further and he could have slit their throats."

"Excuse me, Sir? First of all he was carrying about fifty pounds of C-4. I suspect he was trying to slip through to the fuel dump and was not going to try to cut any throats. More importantly, we were aware of him well before the third wire and just tracked him until he got close. We wanted to be sure he wasn't bringing any buddies with him."

"Lieutenant, that's bullshit. Don't try to cover up your lack of competence. I've said what I have to say. Your platoon draws perimeter duty again tonight, and it better not happen again. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Sir, you do." I responded quietly, working very hard to control my anger.

"Okay then—and Lieutenant...."

"Sir?"

"Get a haircut. Today."

"Sir?"

"Your hair is too long for an officer under my command. Get it cut! I don't know why you let it grow that long in the first place."

"Well, we have kind of been occupied, but I can get it cut. Anything else, Sir?" I struggled, unsuccessfully, to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. Fortunately for me, it didn't register with Fielder.

"Dismissed."

The barber at Quan Loi was a delightful fellow named Le Duc Tron, called "Duke." He loved Americans and in turn they had adopted him and his family. Since haircuts were invariably military style close buzz cuts, he had no problem doing them. His wife took in laundry and did a good job with it. His eight year old son had a stand inside the door where he polished your boots. They all loved Americans.

"Hey, Duke! Just a little off the sides and trim the top, huh."

Duke beamed at me and responded, "Duke give A Numbah One GI Haircut, General-san, Sir! You know, always A Numbah One!"

"Right, Duke, always A Number One." I settled into the seat. As Duke wrapped the cover around my neck and shoulders, my thoughts went back to my just completed conversation with Gilvey, Leon and Fat Michael.

Leon's Ohio farmboy temper had erupted first. "Fuck that son-of-a-bitch! What the freakin' hell is his problem! We always let them get closer so we don't have to go into the wire to pick them up. He's supposed to be a vet. This is cherry bullshit."

"Leon, what would you have had me do? Explain to him that we had bet on how long it would take him to reach the spot where we were going to kill him? C'mon, man, that would have gone over great."

"Yeah, but—"

"Stow it, Leon," Gilvey interrupted. "Our problem is not the reaction to last night. It's what we have to deal with from here on out. Mickey, what's your read on this?"

Duke's antiquated clippers caught on my hair and pinched. I winced and Duke immediately apologized, "Ahh! Clippers Number Ten. So sorry General-san. So sorry."

"It's okay, Duke." I smiled and returned to my soldiers.

"Well, for tonight, if you see it shoot it. No games. No waiting. Over the longer term it seems to me that the Captain has a hard on for me but not the platoon. So it's more my problem. Damned if I know what set him off on me though."

"It's that prick, Kelly," Fat Michael spit out! "He's the one who's got it in for you. He never liked the way Captain Chapman took to you."

"Interesting speculation, Michael. Do you have any evidence?"

"Actually, I do. Peterson in Third's Second Squad is a friend of mine. He wants to transfer to second or first to get away from the asshole. He told me he heard Kelly dropping some shit on Fielder about you being a loose cannon."

"Hmmm. That would explain how fast he got down on me. Usually you have to know me for a few minutes before you dislike me. He's right enough about me as far as military procedures. I just want to keep us all alive and get us back home."

"You do damn good with combat," Gilvey interjected! "Kelly should be half as good."

"Okay guys, anger won't help us with this. For right now, we just play it straight. Besides, the word is that "Westy" is headed home and General Abrams is going to switch us to small unit operations. We are likely going to be doing more ops on our own than with the company. Let's give it a little time to sort out."

As Duke's clippers buzzed around my ear, I decided to turn my concerns on how to lead my platoon under new and difficult conditions over to Problem Solving Central. I left P.S.C. with directions that I just needed some solid guidance, not a quick answer.

I paid Duke, gave him a nice tip, and ruffled his kid's head on the way out. The whole family carried on with great sincerity about 'Americans Numbah One'. It was nice that some Vietnamese appreciated what we were trying to do for them.

I strolled over to the Beer Garden, ordered a coke and checked the entertainment list. We had a Philippines R&B Band. I guess if you can't make it in Manila, there's always Quon Loi. I held out little hope that they would even be competent, let alone good. Somehow, that seemed to make another night on the wire easier to contemplate.

My next stop was Battalion Ops. I stuck my head in the door and yelled at Lieutenant Landon, a classmate and friend. "Hey! How do you go about getting one of these fucking REMF jobs. You good at sucking dick or what?"

Landon laughed. "No shithead. Talent, ability, leadership, all are required and that leaves you out in the rain for sure."

"Got me there, man. Got me there. What's the word we're getting on smaller platoon size ops? Any heads up?"

Landon motioned me in to a seat by his desk. "The word is that we'll still be doing company size eagle flights and interdiction, but a lot of short platoon size patrols and ambushes will be scheduled too. General Abrams wants to shift away from attempting to engage the VC in large scale action and take them on the way they like to fight, with small hit and run stuff. No one is sure how it will sort out given that Charlie has made some major large unit actions recently. Heard you encountered some of that?"

I grinned. "Yeah we handed out a few rock and roll lessons. Damn near got a few back. We've been lucky so far and my guys are veterans. Damn good professionals."

"So we've heard, and we also hear that there's this dinkydau Mickey Six fool who doesn't believe in ducking very much. Any comment on that?"

I stared at Landon for a minute. He was a good guy and I liked him, but he worked at Battalion Ops. "Hey man, no use ducking the ones that have already missed. Besides, a rep for crazy—that can be useful, if you're sane enough to handle it."

I filed the info Landon had provided and hiked back to the company area. I cleaned my M-16, unloaded and reloaded my magazines, wrote a short letter home to Mom and Dad and took a nap. Supper and back to the wire came soon enough.

After our second night on the wire, which was quiet, the Captain issued marching orders at breakfast. A company patrol out the front gate for two and a half klicks, with helicopter transport back in. Third Platoon point; Second had the rear; suited me.

Two and a half klicks through the Michelin Rubber Plantation is a long trek. I had no desire to push point in those conditions, especially with a new Captain who already disliked me. As the day turned out, my sentiments proved to be a hundred percent on target.

The Michelin Plantation had been operated by the French corporation to produce rubber for the Michelin tires. After decades of war, the plantation had reverted to jungle in large areas, complete with impenetrable growths of bamboo, and all the other niceties that are actually part of a habitat romanticized by Hollywood's Tarzan.

Jungle is damp. No, wet. And severely humid. It is tangled and filled with scratchy, itchy plants and insects. It is easy to get lost in, and a great place for stumbling into ambushes. Our company patrol moved through this difficult terrain at an exceptionally slow pace. Definitely not fast enough to cover the ground assigned.

The first major obstacle was a growth of young bamboo, with dark green, segmented stalks, up to two inches in diameter, rising fifteen feet or higher, and interlocked in every imaginable way. It was formidable. Push a stalk in one direction and three other stalks grabbed and pushed back. Use a machete and other stalks suspended the cut ones. Forward progress was purchased at the price of switching the point man every ten to fifteen minutes to prevent total exhaustion. The height of the bamboo provided no shade. The close quarters intensified the heat. Over one hundred men stopping, starting, chopping, coughing, reverberated noise in all directions; alerting any enemy who could be invisible even five feet away. Our noise rendered us deaf to any sound from them. We moved in and out of gullies making following a compass course near impossible.

Lt. Hall suggested to the Captain that a detour around might expedite our progress and be appropriate. Fielder's comment was not unexpected. "This is our prescribed route and we will follow the plan as assigned, Lieutenant. Besides, it's probably not all that thick."

My concern revolved mainly around a profound hope that my men and I would not encounter any bamboo vipers. This lovely, little, "Oz Emerald" green snake is about the thickness of your little finger and eight to twelve inches in length. It is virtually invisible in its natural habitat of young bamboo, and, after the King Cobra, is the second deadliest snake in Vietnam. It is one of the "two-step snakes." One bite, two steps—you die. That deadly.

Well, all the guys ahead of us should chase any snakes away, or at least get bit first. Maybe one will greet the Captain. With that comforting thought, I cautioned the men to stay in close contact and we moved into the thicket. Three hours and only a hundred and fifty meters later we were still struggling through what the Captain believed would – "not be all that thick."

"This is Delta Six. November Platoon is exiting the thicket and we will take a break when we all clear..."

KRACK! KRACK! KRACK!

I would have ducked at the sound of the AKs but there wasn't room to even get down. Damn, hope it's just a sniper and not a full scale attack. We're fucked for fighting in here!

BRACKITA! BRACKITA! BOOM!

November responded and no AKs answered. Good! Probably just snipers.

After some confused reports from November Six, things sorted out and another half hour found us out of the bamboo thicket in a tangled underbrush area. Even so, it marked improved visibility and mobility and reduced insecurity.

The Captain decided we had delayed too long to take a rest so we moved on. We encountered a gash in the earth too small to be called a canyon but too big to be a ditch. It was fifteen meters deep and thirty meters across with no easy path in or out. Again, the Captain declined to detour, so we found ourselves climbing down into a hole and climbing out the other side. Going in, you could basically slide down, but climbing out with eighty pounds on your back and a weapon to carry is not nearly as easy. I felt tremendously insecure about possibly being attacked while down in a hole and fairly certain that climbing out would result in at least a minor disaster.

Shit! Right again. I thought as a member of first platoon fell and took another man with him.

A sprained wrist and twisted back for those two provided a long delay while ropes were rigged to get them to the top. Dust-offs were not considered. Several more such incidents, including three of my men, created further delays, but resulted only in bruises and scrapes.

The Captain gave fifteen minutes to rest and eat while he evaluated our situation. Most of the men sipped some water. Few ate anything. The heat and humidity combined with a long stretch without a break killed appetites.

The Captain called the Officers together. As usual, he stated the overwhelmingly obvious. "These delays in our march have made it impossible to stay on our assigned course and reach our pickup location on time. Therefore, we will cut due East on ninety degrees, pick up the road and follow it down to the bridge across the stream. It's a perfect site for an ambush, but we don't have any other choice. Any questions?"

I had a few dozen questions, but I didn't need P.S.C. to tell me it would be foolish to ask any of them. I could see John Hall felt the same.

I simply cautioned my guys to greater alertness once we hit the road, since it was definitely an ideal place to be ambushed. We did make good speed, however, and within an hour word came back that the bridge was in sight. My stomach tightened and my senses went to major alert...

KRACK! KRACKITA! BOOM! KRACKITA!

The most predictable of ambushes hit us and everyone scattered to the side of the road as the head of the column took heavy fire, except me. I hesitated for a second watching the tracers and explosions, which were nowhere near me and pivoted to my rear. With my back to the shooting, I stood in the middle of the road and searched intently for any sign of enemy troops to our rear or side. A pinchers move by Charlie would be very effective and extremely dangerous to us.

As the firing continued, I searched with every faculty I had. My eyes, ears, nose, and intuition all said no enemy except those to our front. Satisfied, I turned back towards the shooting, which was already lessening. I turned, casually strolled to the side of the road and took a seat next to Sergeant Gilvey who was supine behind a large tree.

"Damn, Mickey, you're fucking insane. What's that all about?"

"Didn't want us hit from the rear by surprise, Sarge. Basic military strategy."

"Shit! And what kind of military strategy is it to stand in the middle of the road and get your ass shot off?" Gilvey quizzed.

"Those boys were interested in lighting up the front of the column. Hell, they were scared of so many of us and triggered the damn 'bush too soon. None of that fire was headed my way."

Gilvey thought a moment, shook his head and sighed. "Guess you're right about triggering early. They'd have hurt us bad if we were fifty meters closer, but Mickey...."

"Yeah?"

"People do switch targets. Keep this up and you'll buy the farm one day."

Several smartass comments came immediately to my mind but froze in place. I looked at the serious expression on Gilvey's face and knew he was right. "I guess so, Sarge. But tell me, do I have any other choice?"

Gilvey stared at me but remained wordless. His eyes told me he understood whether or not he agreed.

My actions increased my reputation for being crazy. This did not particularly enthrall Fielder, but he apparently couldn't find the words to criticize them, so he stayed quiet about it.

We made our rendezvous at the pickup zone and had a lovely flight back to Quon Loi on our Hughey Slicks over the beautiful green Oz facade that concealed such blood-red hell. Where in the hell is the yellow brick road home? We were in time for a hot supper. Second drew line assignment again.

Surprisingly, the next morning we drew stand down, a day and night off to enjoy all of the multiple delights of entertainment offered by Quon Loi. Well, okay, at least we could catch up on naps, write letters home, and get a cold beer. The news was a morale boost for the entire platoon.

"Gilvey, inspection at 1100, then lunch and some modest R&R."

"Sounds A Number One to me," Gilvey grinned.

Fielder dropped it on us at lunch. "Battalion wants a platoon size ambush tonight. I volunteered Second Platoon, to give you the opportunity to expand your leadership skills. Be out the gate immediately after supper, by 1830 hours. Your site is about a klick and a half out. Questions?"

I stared for a minute, thinking, Don't do me any fucking favors, asshole! Then I responded, "No. We can handle it."

I had no objection to leading my men on an ambush, although I doubt I would have volunteered for it. The thing is, morale for combat troops is an extremely sensitive issue. You can give them bad news repeatedly. Easily ask them to assault the gates of hell for the umpteenth time in a row. However, if you tell them they are going to get so much as a luke-warm cup of coffee and then don't deliver, you've put the match to the tinder.

I hoped Fielder would not make a habit of doing this, but held a strong suspicion that this would only be the first time of many.

I reviewed the site of the ambush and route out with Gilvey, Leon and Fat Michael. Together we chose three locations around the site to pre-register with the mortar support crew. A pre-registered site is located on the map and given a designation such as Papa Rio One. Since the coordinates are already set, calling for fire on such a location is much quicker than calling in long sets of coordinate numbers. Fire is then adjusted where it is needed from those sites. The trick is to pick sites the enemy is likely to pass close to. Then make sure they are both far enough from your ambush site to be safe and close enough to be useful. I was grateful for the expert team I had helping me identify the sites.

"Okay, guys. Make sure all of your men are fully re-supplied and all gear is in order, taped down tight and I want full canteens. There's only twenty-seven of us and I want to run quiet and smooth. I estimate arrival at the 'bush thirty to forty minutes before dark. We move in at ten minutes before last light to limit being seen. You each know what axis to set up on. Questions?—Good, I'll brief Oscar Six on the pre-registers and try to make sure he writes them down right. Chow at 1730, Assembly at 1830, out the gate at 1835. Should be an interesting night. Let's do it."

We cleared the gate at 1837 and within minutes entered the dusk of the Michelin. Rubber trees grow sixty to eighty feet high and everything above twenty feet is canopy. The tree's leaves are extremely broad and thick and they overlap. During the day you have dim but adequate light to see for long distances, if you can find a long line of sight through the brush. Under these trees at night you come as close to pure darkness as I've ever known outside of being a hundred feet underground in Kentucky's Mammoth Caves with the lights off. Black as a witch's heart gives you the general picture; unable to see six inches past your fingertips a more precise one.

I chose a path with significant changes of direction every four to five hundred meters. This meant four different lines on the major portion of the route, with a little hook at the end to the site itself. Traveling a straight line for an extended period is an open invitation to be ambushed. Working with my guys and their experience of the area, I avoided moving through a large section of young bamboo and kept us off well traveled paths right to the site on a dirt road through the woods.

We made good time and had thirty minutes to rest and watch the site from a hundred meters away before moving in and setting up. We were in place and ready for the night as the last bit of light expired. I called us in as on-site and set for the night.

"Roger Six, This is Major Ford. I'll be monitoring you tonight. Keep your men alert and good luck."

We settled in quietly for the long night's watch. The road created enough of a gap between the trees that we could detect movement about one hundred and fifty meters down it in either direction. Our claymores were set at the edge of the road and our line was about fifteen meters from the road. Both ends of the line were turned about one hundred and five degrees to give some flank and rear protection. The Command Group, Gilvey, me and our R.T.O.s were in the center, directly in control of three of the claymores.

The night passed calmly until 0100 when word was passed from the left flank that an ox cart was coming down the road. Damn! Have we got some farmers coming home late from getting laid in the next village or a major transport for the NVA? No matter, they don't belong here. Time to take care of business.

"Mickey One, Six. Michael, I want them all the way into the kill zone. Blow two claymores on them starting with the second one in. No small arms unless they start shooting."

"Roger, Mickey. No sweat, GI."

"Mickey Two, Six. Leon, I'll blow three claymores if they keep coming. Stand ready with two of yours and have your M-60 ready to blanket the roadway if needed."

Then we waited for the lumbering cart, a major transportation vehicle here for centuries, but awesomely slow. Time played its favorite trick, again seconds became hours. Finally, I could hear the wheels turning; Vietnamese being spoken quietly. Moments later...

BOOM! – BOOM!

An ox is a very hard animal to kill, and I did not expect to do the job with two claymores. I knew the exact location of each of the claymores I would trigger and held my breath as I waited for the cart to reach the first one I controlled.

Trigger one now!

BOOM!

Direct Hit! Awesome! Ready two...

BOOM!

Damn. Looks like three of them in the cart and that fucking ox ain't even slowing down. Trigger three!

BOOM!

The brilliant flash of the explosion momentarily lit up the galloping ox, the crude cart and three men bouncing on their ride through hell. Perfect broadside! Fuuuuck!

"Leon, Drop that ox with the sixty!" I shouted...

BOOM! BRACKITA! BRACKITA! BOOM! BRACKITA!

The sixty continued to spit out rounds. A lone M-16 fired a long burst and I heard Leon curse. I knew that the ox had more than enough lead in him to lay down and die. I just was not at all sure that the ox, a notoriously stupid animal, would figure that out before the night ended. He'd probably run for another hour at least. I called for reports.

Seven claymores blown, a couple of hundred rounds of ammo expended, no injuries, a certainty that three men were killed and outrageous admiration for one tough ox was the score. I called it in.

"Midnight, this is Delta Mickey Six. We've triggered the ambush, believe three body count, no injuries on our part."

"Mickey Six, this is Midnight. Major Ford here. Can you confirm body count?"

"Negative. Charlie was riding an ox cart and we couldn't quite persuade it to stop. Absolutely sure there were at least three passengers and unlikely they survived."

"Is there any movement in the kill zone? This is important Mickey," Major Ford continued. "I want you to check out the kill zone."

"Major, no way to do that. We can't see fifteen feet out there. Besides that ox is still running. He was one tough bastard. He's half way back to their ville by now."

"Lieutenant, this is not a request. It's an order. I want you to check out that kill zone. We need to know what we've got here."

I know I've got a fucking REMF idiot here. I answered slowly and, I hoped, calmly, while I kicked in Problem Solving Central to figure out how to handle this fool. "Major, I ain't ducking no orders. Sir—what you are asking is a physical impossibility. Sir—there simply is not sufficient light for us to check out the kill zone—at all. Let alone enough to do it safely—Sir."

"Hell, Lieutenant, we can fire some illuminating rounds and give you all the light you'll need. Now quit stalling. Get ready to follow my orders and check out that zone."

"Roger, Sir." I bit my tongue to not say what deserved saying. "Give me a few minutes to get organized."

Gilvey had crawled down to my position and listened to the conversation. "Fucking Major Ford is a minor prick trying hard to be a major dick. Don't do it, Sir. Fool's errand for sure."

"Sarge, couldn't agree more, but I'm not calling this shot. George, slide down to my position. You, me and the R.T.O. are gonna go tango on the road." I spoke loud enough to carry to his position a few meters away.

"Shit! Party time. Be there momentarily, Mickey." I wondered who was crazier, me for asking or him for happily joining.

I passed the word up and down the line to ensure that everyone knew that it would be three of the good guys strolling in the kill zone. 'Friendly fire' isn't. Then called in. "Midnight, Delta Mickey Six. We're ready to move at first illumination. Make damn sure the illumination is constant. It is extremely dark here without a luminary in the air."

"We don't need you to tell us that, Lieutenant," Ford sounded like a pervert about to orgasm. "Wait one—shot fired."

Moments later a dim glow filtered down into the trees, enabling me to lie to myself that it was good enough and we could pull this off. "Okay guys, the three of us on a quick tour to the end of the ambush. In and out. Don't worry about finding anyone."

We moved quickly onto the road, across it, and headed to Leon's end of the ambush paralleling the road. If there were any bodies we could find them easily—by tripping on them. The reality of how awesomely stupid this was slammed into me as the first luminary faded and died. Followed by—nothing.

"Freeze and get down!" I whispered harshly. "Radio!" I stuck my hand back and Weiler slapped the handset into it.

"Midnight! We need another illumination round last week, you assholes. Get one up now!"

Ford's voice reminded me of every simpering fool I had ever seen caught in the act: "Don't panic. We'll have another round up for you in a moment. Don't panic."

At that moment I might have become afraid, but my anger prevented that. Use the anger, Problem Solving Central encouraged, and I did. "There is no panic here, just a bad need for some light—NOW!" I snarled calmly and coldly.

The seconds crawled by a month at a time. Burning anger kept my fears at bay, while all my senses shuddered at my efforts to force them to see through the surrounding blackness which enveloped us. My struggles to be superman were producing only an intense pain in my guts. I still could see and sense only a few feet around my position.

Damn you, Ford. If I live through this I'm going to give you a grenade enema! My pleasant thoughts on the details of such an event were interrupted by a chunk of light exploding in the sky above. The second luminary was up.

"Head back to the lines, pronto!" I shouted. Obedience to my command was immediate and unquestioned. In moments we were back with the platoon.

Ford was all over the radio calling for a sitrep, but I ignored him while I struggled to bring my anger under control. Use the anger, don't lose to the anger, was the mantra provided by P.S.C. I meant to do just that. Ford could wait.

Finally, I felt ready, "Midnight, Mickey Six. The kill zone is clear, no ox, no ox cart, no enemy bodies and, fortunately, no American bodies. I repeat the kill zone is clear."

Ford was a textbook example of the species thickus headimus in extremus. Not only did he not respond to my comment about no dead GIs, he also ignored the basic message. "Mickey Six this is Major Ford. Are you absolutely sure the kill zone is clear? It doesn't seem to me that you've had sufficient time to check it out thoroughly. Maybe we need to take another look."

"Major, if you want another look, you can damn well come out here and check it yourself. I've checked it thoroughly and there ain't nothing there. For God's sake, let it be! It is not worth risking lives over."

I reached for the switch to shut off the radio if he persisted. An inoperable radio is great for not receiving unwanted orders, and it is extremely difficult to prove that it was actually working.

"Okay Lieutenant, don't get your pants in an uproar. Keep your platoon alert. I may have additional instructions for you in a little while. Midnight out."

True to his damnable word the REMF called back thirty minutes later.

"Six, this is Midnight Six. We've discussed it, and we want you to pull up your ambush and move it about four hundred meters down the road. You've given your position away to any enemy in the area by triggering the ambush. You need to move."

"Major, please tell me you aren't serious! Hell, if we try to move now and there's anyone close, they'll hit us about the time we get our claymores picked up. We'll have no defenses!"

"Lieutenant! You need to move and I mean now!"

"What about our Papa Rios? They'll be completely useless."

"Lieutenant, this is an order. Quit stalling and do your job!"

I'm not sure what I was going to say next. I am sure it would have got me into significant trouble. Before I could say anything, Sergeant Gilvey grabbed my arm.

"Mickey, time for Operation Smoke."

I took a deep breath, "Roger Midnight. Give us fifteen to get ready. We'll need any available arty ready to assist. Out."

I passed the word for everyone to sit tight and waited for twenty minutes.

"Midnight, we're ready to move."

"About time I was getting ready to call and see what was delaying you."

"Well, it is a bit dark out here and that slowed us a mite, but we're ready. Is the artillery support all set? I want it ready to go on call."

"Don't worry about that. I've got it all arranged. Get going."

All arranged. Right! Just like the fucking illumination. You fucking REMF!

"Moving out in two minutes."

Operation smoke began. In two minutes I reported, "Moving." In fifteen, "A hundred meters covered." In thirty, "A hundred and fifty meters done." And finally, after ninety miserable minutes, "New site reached, setting up."

I smirked at how easy it was to fool the Brass, while that small voice reminded me, You've just disobeyed a direct order from a superior officer in combat. I mentally shrugged. True enough. The first—unlikely the last.

We broke the ambush a few minutes after first light. The rubber trees are thirty meters plus high. The first five meters is trunk, with the canopy starting above that. If you cut the tree to harvest the rubber, a milky white sap trickles out. In the kill zone, all of the trees in an area thirty meters wide and five high were covered in white teardrops as if they wept for all of our sins.

That ox may not have stopped but those poor bastards in the cart are dead for sure.

We came back in with five changes of direction on a completely different route than the night before, with a slight detour. We stopped by the small village where we were sure the ox had been headed.

A quick unauthorized search produced three AK47s but no bodies—not even the ox. Well, I guess they'll eat well tonight.

Fielder was waiting when we reached the company area.

"Lieutenant, just what the hell do you think you're doing? Major Ford has been all over my ass about your attitude last night and he just called with a report that you went into the ville without authorization. Is that true?" he screamed.

"Well, yes, Sir. it's true. We tracked a blood trail from the ox." I shrugged, "But we did come right back out."

Fielder sputtered, trying to speak. Before he could get anything out, I interrupted. "Don't get too excited. We didn't find any VC, but we uncovered a weapons cache with three AKs, to indicate the presence of the enemy as we expected."

Gilvey stepped forward with the rifles and interjected, "Good bit of work it was, Captain. All because of Mickey's leadership, too."

Fielder's face reddened brighter than a Tijuana whore's panties. I thought he might swallow his tongue. He finally managed, "This is not over yet, Lieutenant." He turned and marched briskly away.

I grinned at Gilvey. "Better to be lucky than good, huh?"

"Best to be both, and I think you are," he replied.

"True on the luck. Anyway, you didn't need to stick your neck out like that."

"No big deal. I'm headed for R&R to Australia in a few days, so I don't give a shit. Besides, it's harder for lower level brass to get non-coms than Lieutenants. We run the army you know."

"So every Sergeant-Major I've known has told me," I grinned.

As we walked to our tents, I thought, Whatever else happens, I took my guys out and brought them all back safe and killed three of the enemy in the bargain. I'll take that any day.

****

Chapter 7 ~ Messages

"Hey Mickey, you gonna run that new firing line they set up? Supposed to be a real hummer. Runs you down a trail with targets popping all over the place and ends in a clearing with targets all around. They say nobody can take it, but I bet you and Leon could ace that mutha."

The speaker, the Captain's R.T.O., a tall, slender, blond haired fellow named Rudy had taken a liking to me and was irked by the new C.O., and Fielder would probably be annoyed if Leon and I ran this new training area and beat it by scoring all of the targets. That thought intrigued me.

I nodded at Rudy, "Thinking about it. What do you reckon the odds would be against me and Leon?"

"Hell, I bet I can get five to one. Everyone is talking about how tough it is. I know you two can do it!"

"Five to one? They all know how good Leon is. I must be the question mark."

"Yeah Mickey, they don't know how good you are, but I do."

I know I'm a good shot, the real question is how good a leader am I? Oh, what the hell!

"Sign us up and put down twenty for me," I grinned.

"Okay Mickey," Leon smiled. "Any particular way you want to do this? The course should be a breeze. No one is shooting back."

"True enough, Leon. How about if you take the targets on the right and I take the ones on the left. Listen for the sound of the target triggers. That should give us an extra tenth of a second."

"Good by me, Mickey. Let's give 'em hell!"

The twisting course presented several difficulties. The trail was steep. The targets distributed in no discernible pattern, including some in the trees, and a time limit of fifteen minutes to complete. We moved onto the trail.

Sncckt!

A target springing low on my left. I pivoted as it came into view.

KRACK!

One shot. One target down. Good start! A noise to the right...

KRACK! KRACK!

Leon dropped a double.

We fell into a smooth rhythm and moved down the trail at a good pace. Twice I almost missed targets, but luck stayed with me. Leon was hitting them all dead center. We moved into the clearing. As if on cue, we both slammed home fresh magazines and pivoted left and right to cover the edge of the clearing closest to where we emerged. The targets popped up rapidly one following another starting next to the trail exit as we expected.

KRACK! KRACK! KRACK! KRACK! KRACK!

We mowed them down in order. Slowly turning with each target, both of us fired from the hip. As we completed a hundred and eighty degrees of the circle two targets presented, one ten meters behind the other.

KRACK!

Leon nailed the first. I threw my rifle to my shoulder, aimed and squeezed. As my weapon fired, the target disappeared and the KRACK from Leon's M-16 echoed in my ear.

Damn! Leon beat me and got them both.

"Shit, Mickey, you beat me to that last one! Great shooting!" Leon crowed.

"The hell you say, Leon! You got the last one."

"No. I saw it go down as I pulled my trigger. You got it. You're even faster than I am. Shit, man you're awesome!"

The target had two holes in it, and only God would ever know whose shot was first. For my part, I had no doubt Leon beat me. I finally resolved the debate with Leon with a line from John Wayne in the movie "Rio Bravo." I told him, "I'd hate to live on the difference." He liked that.

I donated my winnings to the fund for company parties. I was completely satisfied that our performance would add a very nice edge of respect to my growing reputation for being off-center and crazy. That should prove useful.

Word of our success in defeating the trail spread and Fielder became even more cranky but more cautious on pushing me, which didn't offend me. There was no doubt I could outshoot him. I was confident I could easily outthink him, but all that did not remove the minor problem that he outranked me. We continued a relationship that could, at best, be described as testy.

"Lieutenant, Second Platoon will have point today. We're going in on eagle flights, so you will be last in and hit the ground running. There is a good possibility the LZ will be hot. It will be up to you to lead us out as fast as possible. This won't be a cake walk down some trail. Do you think you can handle it?"

"Absolutely, Sir. No problem at all."

"There better damn not be!" Fielder snarled. "Assemble at 0900 on the airstrip."

My platoon was spread among four Hueys, which would land two at a time side by side in the LZ. I was in the first Huey with George as point. Gilvey was in the fourth with Fat Michael and Leon in the other two. If the LZ was hot as expected, we would need to move and get the company out of the kill zone of the ambush as fast as we could. This is the most dangerous assignment. I figured that was how Fielder would do it from then on. Most dangerous goes to Second Platoon. Although patently unfair, it didn't bother me. I preferred to be in position to control the action.

The co-pilot leaned back and motioned for me to pick up the intercom headset. I complied and he spoke immediately, "Lieutenant, the LZ is too damn hot for us to make it in. They want us to drop you about one klick west so you can maneuver and assist your company. They're taking real heavy fire."

"Roger. Get us to the new site pronto." I grabbed my radio and sorted out procedures with my platoon as the choppers banked left and picked up speed. Within minutes we swooped in for a landing.

The platoon exited, the choppers pulled out, and we quickly oriented 90 degrees due east and headed towards our comrades...

BRACKITA! BRACKITA! BRACKITA!

The deep, unmistakable cough of a fifty caliber machine gun, the scariest noise on earth, roared. I yelled "Take Cover!" unnecessarily, of course, since everyone had jumped for cover at the first sound.

"Anybody got a fix on where that fifty is hiding?" I shouted. Several people responded, all in the negative. "Gilvey, Michael, Leon, we need to find that now! We have to get moving to help the company."

Minutes passed with no luck locating the enemy. "Okay guys, we need to move; the company can't wait. Let's get up and at it." I added somewhat facetiously, "Keep an eye out for that fifty?"

BRACKITA! BRACKITA! BRACKITA!

I tried to remain standing an extra few seconds to spot the hidden gun emplacement, but self preservation took over and I ducked without spotting it.

Damn! I need some help fast. We can't be spending time on this with the company under fire.

A few moments yelling back and forth revealed that no one had been hit, no one could tell where the gun was, and no one had any good ideas on how to proceed.

I contemplated the wisdom of standing up as a lone target and drawing fire while the rest of the platoon searched for the gun. The odds with that strategy did not encourage me to hurry up and try.

"Delta Mike Six, this is Ranger Six. What's going on down there? You need to get moving and assist your company!"

Ranger Six was the Colonel's call sign. I looked up. His helicopter was about ten thousand feet above us. He loved to oversee ops from a high, safe distance. I responded, "Roger Six, we'll move at full tilt boogie as soon as we take care of the fifty that has us pinned down."

"What fifty? I don't see any fifty!"

"Hey, land the damn helicopter and I'm sure you'll see it!"

"Lieutenant, you're bordering on insubordination here. I want you to get up and get moving and I mean now!"

"Sir, how does getting my men shot to hell help the company, I—"

"Mickey, we've got him!" Leon yelled. "We're laying it on him now."

As most of the platoon opened fire on a section of brush about three hundred meters out, I returned to the Colonel, "Six, we've located the fifty and are bringing fire on them. I anticipate moving out in the next few minutes. Out."

Charlie decided not to stay and play. In less than five minutes we were moving towards the company. We made good time and linked up in less than an hour. Charlie had not stayed and played there either. The Captain wasn't particularly happy to see me.

"Lieutenant, I want you to explain your reason for delaying coming to help us. The Colonel said you were goofing off, and—"

"Sir, with all due respect," I interrupted, "I'll tell you the same thing I told the Colonel. Explain to me how it helps the company to have my men stand up and get blown to hell by a fifty caliber machine gun. We had to take care of that first, and then we made the best time we could to here."

"The Colonel says there wasn't any fifty. What are you trying to pull?" screamed Fielder.

"The Colonel said he didn't see a fifty from ten thousand feet up." I spoke clearly and very low. "I've got twenty-five witnesses who will vouch we were engaged by the enemy with a fifty. You don't know what you're talking about. So let it be."

Fielder's face was puffed up, and looked ready to explode. Slowly he inhaled and softened his stance, slightly.

I took advantage. "Sir, don't you think we should move out and get on with the mission?"

"I'll make that decision, Lieutenant." He paused, his face twisted as if he were chewing the most sour of lemons, "Oh hell, move out. Follow the original planned route."

I nodded, counted my blessings and moved out.

The day stretched out before us, long, hot and tense. We found multiple signs of possible enemy presence but made no contact. Late in the afternoon we airlifted back to Quon Loi. The day's tension eased, but not the tension between Fielder and me.

"Lieutenant, where the hell do you get off talking to the Colonel like that? He is really steamed. Me too, you can't talk to me the way you did. I'm your superior officer!"

I looked at this truly small man and wondered, How are we ever going to make it with this asshole in charge?

"Sir," I spoke softly and deliberately, as if speaking to a particularly ill tempered, not too bright child, "This is not a matter of military courtesy. It is a matter of getting the job done and keeping people alive doing it. I will sacrifice the lives of my men and my own if that is what it takes to accomplish the mission. I just don't believe it makes sense to risk men dying unnecessarily."

"That's not your decision to make, Lieutenant. You just follow orders!

"No, Sir! It is very much my decision. I command my platoon and when we operate independently, I decide. Blindly following orders is stupid. I refuse to be stupid."

Fielder's face looked like he was choking on the bones of the Maumee River "Carp" the nuns used to feed us on Fridays in the seminary. Finally, sweat spraying off his distorted features, he stammered "This is not over. Not by a long shot. Dismissed!"

We left it like that—in disagreement for the time being. A match made in hell.

"George, word just came down. You're going to get the Silver Star. I put you in for one, for saving your buddy at Thu Doc!"

" What? Fuck. No way! I don't want any fucking medals from this goddamed army. No way, no how! I didn't ask for any damn Silver Star, and I ain't gonna accept it. Mickey, what the hell are you trying to do? Ruin my image with my people?"

This was not the enthusiasm I had expected. "George, you were very brave pulling your buddy out under fire. You almost got killed twice doing it. I thought you deserved a Silver Star. What the hell is your beef?"

"Damn it, Mickey, I'm a rebel! An outlaw! In the world, I'm a truck driving son of a bitch. My buddy and I can run a big rig from New York to Los Angeles non-stop in two days and turn right around and make it back to New York in another two. I ain't no goddamed, fucking hero, and I ain't gonna accept no Silver Star! My people would never understand. No way!"

"Well, you earned it. I put you in for it, and you're going to accept it and like it."

"I ain't gonna like it 'cause I ain't gonna accept it and you can't give me one good reason why I should. I just ain't gonna risk the bullshit from my friends in the world because you think a medal is cute. And that's all there is to that."

I stared at this true hero, so determined not to be labeled one, lest he lose the respect of his buddies at home. He deserves this, damn it! Find a way to make it acceptable to him.

"George, if I can give you a good reason to accept the award, will you?"

"Ain't no such reason, Mickey." He paused, "But, okay. For you, I'll take it if you can give me just one good reason. And I mean good."

I grinned. "If you accept it with a smile, it will totally piss off Fielder."

"Okay!" George nearly doubled over choking with laughter. He got his breath, looked at me and spoke quietly, "I'll accept it, Mickey. But I won't like it."

"Good enough, George. Don't forget to smile. That'll burn Fielder's shriveled soul."

The ceremony was the next day. George smiled. Fielder fumed. All in all, a pretty good day.

We were having few enough good days. Search and destroy patrols were the order of business virtually every day, ambushes and perimeter duty filled the nights, days off a precious rarity and Fielder had a way of screwing up even those. My platoon maintained its top level performance and continued to be rewarded with the most dangerous assignments. This often happened with no advance warning, as if Fielder hoped to get us killed by surprise. Fortunately, we were just too good for that to happen. The pressure to protect these wonderful warriors of mine continued to build within me. Finding a moment of relief was, therefore, extra special to me.

Two days after the award ceremony we were on company patrol. The day, sweaty, sticky, and boring, did not promise anything of great interest. For a change, Second ran center position, so it was particularly boring.

We stopped on a trail for a short break. I sat down on a small mound, swallowed some life giving, cool wet and looked down to my right. Almost exactly between myself and Coyote, who sat five feet away, a brightly banded snake crawled slowly along.

Common knowledge said that 'Nam had 100 species of snakes of which 99 were poisonous. The correct numbers were about 140 species with about 30 poisonous. This fact added no comfort.

Oh God! A coral snake. Red on yellow, kill a fellow! Wait! Was that Red or black on yellow? Damn! I hate snakes.

"Coyote. Reckon what kind of snake that is?" I nodded at the reptile.

Coyote was perhaps the only member of the Platoon who loathed snakes more than me. Moments he stared, then his right hand moved faster than you could see. He reached back, grabbed the handle of his machete and, with one motion drew the blade and struck, Wham! And struck, Wham! And Wham! Wham! Wham! Wham!—Wham!—

Wham!—Wham!

Coyote looked at me. "Reckon we don't gots to worry about it."

What could I say? "Reckon so, man. Reckon So." There was insufficient snake corpse left to determine for sure if it was a coral snake, which is one of the few species supposed not to be in 'Nam. A loss for science, but my conscience was clear. The rest of the day was a bit more cheerful after the snake massacre.

The next day turned out to be far less fun. We rode an eagle flight out of Quon Loi and conducted a company sweep. Second was on point but Fielder had seriously warned us that several villages we would pass were protected and we could not return fire without getting permission from the Province Chief.

The first of these villages was Noi Dai. Charlie wasted no time and the sniping started as soon as the village came into view. We hit the dirt, and I immediately requested permission to return fire. Fielder passed the request up the line and we waited while Charles attempted to pick some of us off. Except for George, my men maintained fire control. George didn't fire either, but only because Fat Michael grabbed his arm and threatened to give him a "blooper enema."

As we pretty much expected, after an hour and a half of AK rounds whizzing by at the rate of one every three or four minutes, word came down that this was a friendly village and we must be mistaken as to where the fire was coming from. Permission to return fire—denied. Proceed with your mission.

Complying with the order felt like having our dicks massaged by a grater, but we quietly slipped away and followed a course well out of range of the AKs in the village. The only thought I had was, Payback is a mutha, boys! Remember, payback is a mutha!

The next village we passed was Bu Xa Tran and they also waved at us with some fireworks. We stayed further away and didn't bother to call for permission to return fire. It was still the same Province Chief, and I had to admit Fielder was right when he said making the call would just waste time. I continued to ponder the pleasures of payback.

We made it to our pick up point on time with no one injured so the day could have been worse. I was still thinking payback that evening after supper while I enjoyed a few Cuba Libres at the officer's bar. Second had the night off for a change. After finishing my fourth I excused myself and headed for the latrine. I opened the door, stepped out, and...

KRACK!

I pivoted, stepped back in and slammed the door.

Captain Butler, from Alpha Company, looked over, grinned and said, "Not to worry, Lieutenant. It's just Seven O'clock Charlie."

"Seven oh what—who?" I stammered, having been caught off guard.

"Seven O'clock Charlie, our friendly local sniper. He fires one round every night promptly at 1900 hours. He is either a very bad shot or is trying very hard not to hit anybody. We figure he's a local peasant farmer trying to keep the VC happy with him for shooting at the Yankee Imperialists, and trying not to piss off the Americans lest we blow his ass away. Anyway, no harm no foul so far. Most of us prefer the situation as it is. Kill him and Charlie might find someone actually interested in killing GIs."

"Sounds down right reasonable to me. Guess I'll have another drink." I nodded at the good Captain.

"But weren't you on your way to the latrine?" Butler snickered. "I mean Charlie's through for the night. He only fires one round."

"Well you can believe that Captain. Everybody's got to believe something. Right now I believe the fucking latrine can wait, and I believe I'll have another drink. After all, no sense going to the latrine only three quarters full."

The laughter was appreciative and fraternal. I actually had four more drinks before I used the necessary. An uncounted number of drinks later that evening, I accepted Butler's offer of a ride back to my company area in his jeep. That it may have not been the best of decisions can be attributed to overindulgence in alcohol. The jeep hit the dirt road paralleling the airstrip about fifteen minutes after it had been coated with oil, a method used to cut dust during the day. The oil slick surface was very like black ice. The jeep slid and slithered and, about thirty yards down the road, slammed its side into the five foot wall of dirt bordering the road.

"Fucking unreal!" Butler screamed and gunned the engine. The jeep bounced down the road with its right side cutting a furrow in the dirt wall and Butler merrily cussing his head off. I figured I had little worry. First, I was on the left side, and second, the damned jeep didn't belong to me.

I thanked the Captain heartily when he dropped me safely at my company. Only later, on sober reflection, did I realize how improbable a drive it had been. When you're with the right kind of people, nothing else really matters.

I had no difficulty falling asleep. Rising at 0530 was a trifle hard. The morning was completely ruined when word came that our mission would take us past Noi Dai from a different direction. I guess the Brass figured we could fool Charlie by coming from the southwest instead of the northeast. No surprise, based on Fielder's 'policy' of trying to get me killed, Second got point again.

Charlie was not surprised. AKs opened up as soon as we were within range. Again, permission to return fire was denied. The only difference this time was, a Private Hawkins in Third Platoon caught a stray round in his leg.

The Officers and NCOs struggled to prevent return fire. My mind raged Payback is gonna be a fucking, fucking mutha. We backed off, feeling that grater working over the stub between our legs, and got Hawkins to an open area for a dust-off. His wound was neither life threatening nor a million dollar one. He would get a couple of weeks off at the Bien Hoa Hospital and return to the field.

The remainder of the day was hot, irritable, hot, tense, hot, frustrating for lack of people to shoot at, and—oh, you know.

We drew perimeter duty the next two nights and then received a platoon sized patrol mission. Everyone was pleased to be away from Fielder, and our confidence in our abilities left us unworried that we numbered only twenty-seven even though we might encounter sizable groups of the enemy.

The patrol moved well. We slipped through the Michelin relatively quietly for three hours. Coyote was on point, Leon was with me, and Fat Michael and Gilvey had the rear. I felt good. Then Coyote just stopped. He didn't stiffen and alert. He just stopped.

I quickly closed the gap. "Coyote, what have you got?"

"Not sure, Mickey. Doesn't feel like company. Maybe—recent visitors. Can't tell. But we should be careful."

"Right." I turned to my R.T.O. "Get Gilvey up here. We need to scope this out. Then pass the word. Stay in place and alert, but sitting is okay."

Fifteen lengthy, tense minutes of discussion produced a decision to maintain our course but move in a double skirmish line. Coyote lead with two lines of ten each, five on either side of him, following, Leon on the right side and Fat Michael the left. I followed directly behind Coyote, trailed by my R.T.O., the Medic, Sergeant Gilvey and his R.T.O.

We moved barely a hundred meters when Leon called a halt.

"Mickey, we have some bunkers. Hold up while I check them out."

"Roger, Leon. We're holding." I responded as I signaled a halt. No need to caution that man.

Time threatened to pull its shrink and stretch trick. Bunkers by Charlie appear as holes in the ground but two things are certain. One, the hole could be the entrance to a tunnel system the size of a small village. Two, if you were looking down into one hole, there, almost certainly, was another one somewhere at your back. My sense, though, was there were no enemy soldiers in the immediate area.

"Mickey, you ain't gonna believe this one. We've got a weapons cache. Looks like a sixty mike mike mortar, a base plate and about two hundred rounds. Whooee!"

A sixty millimeter mortar is an interesting, almost toy, weapon. The tube is about eighteen inches long and delivers a round slightly smaller and less powerful than a hand grenade. It could kill you of course, but it practically has to land in your pocket to do any damage. Like any mortar, without a bipod for support and a sight to aim it, a round in anyone's pocket would be purely accidental.

We set a perimeter around the bunker-like cache and Gilvey, Leon, Fat Michael and I discussed the possibilities.

Leon said it first, "I'd love to drop these on those pricks at Noi Dai."

"Wouldn't we all!" Gilvey chuckled. "Wouldn't we all."

"Man that's a lot of weight to haul around, even if we get to drop it on those assholes." Michael moaned. " I mean, I love the idea but how could we make it happen?"

"Well," I proposed. "Let's examine that question. We can carry most if not all of this stuff, if everybody carries a little bit. The real question is, how do we get a chance to use it? We'd have to go to Noi Dai on a platoon sweep. Won't work if the whole company is in on it."

"I think I can arrange that," Gilvey almost whispered. "But, Mickey, we'll be very exposed out there by ourselves. Aren't we getting in over our head?"

"Possibly and I damn sure don't want to take any risks we can leave alone, but this is tempting. Damn tempting!"

Leon put his hand on my shoulder. "Mickey, there won't be any trouble there we can't handle. Hell, if they get uppity we'll just send George over to discuss it with them."

We all cracked up at that. Sputtering through his laughter, Michael asked, "What about a bipod? It'll be a bitch to hit anything without one."

"Yeah, right." Gilvey agreed. "Mickey do you think we could get an asbestos glove from Artillery? We don't have to be super accurate. Hell, moving the rounds about will keep them guessing at what is happening. Could work to our advantage."

"I can get an asbestos mitt." I paused. "We need to realize that what is proposed here, will not fit within militarily defined parameters of precisely proper behavior. As important as doing it, will be what happens after. We'll need denial from everyone. I mean, total denial! We hang together or we all hang separately."

On that note, the levity we enjoyed from contemplating thumping our enemies dried up and the serious side weighed in. The discussion continued with no one worried about the legality, only about the possibility of being caught. No one gave any sign of backing off from busting Charlie's ass.

Finally, our plan agreed upon, I called the platoon together and laid it out. "The last point is, we all have to agree to this. If even one of you says no, we don't go. I'm going to stand over there. One at a time, you guys come over and tell me yes or no. I'm the only one who will know who it was if anyone says no."

It didn't take long. The vote was unanimous. Military rules be damned; we would send a message Charlie could not mistake.

We loaded up with the tube, base plate and one hundred and twenty rounds. We blew another eighty rounds in place, reported the discovery and destruction of the weapons cache, and cut our route short to make it back to Quon Loi before dark. At the base we carefully stored the mortar and rounds and Gilvey and I pursued our separate assignments to pull off what we had designated as "Operation Up Yours Charlie."

I caught up with Lt. Tripp from artillery. He was at Duke's getting a hair cut. Duke was busy cussing his clippers and apologizing at the same time. He waved at me, "Hey! General-san you numbah one. You back to get numbah one haircut, hey."

"Hey, Duke. Nah, I'm here looking for that fellow whose ears you're lowering. Careful you don't slip and take them off!"

"Hey, General-san Duke no slip. Duke master barber, numbah one." Duke's patter was his standard stuff, but he gave me the strangest look of pride mixed with anger. I blinked and his face was back to its normal good cheer. Must have imagined that.

"Duke, everyone know's you're numbah one for sure. You and your whole family, but I just need a chat with the Lieutenant there. You can trim me next time."

"Next time for sure General-san. For sure."

Tripp was a good man and getting a commitment to borrow an asbestos glove was not a problem.

I decided to check out the Filipino band at the Beer Garden. Bad! Very Bad! Awful! Their idea of originality was to warble "...blow up the whole fucking place..." instead of "damn place" in the song "Eve of Destruction." They had no sense of rhythm, melody or much of anything else we regard as music. I think the basic message was Bob Hope plays Da Nang and Bien Hoa. The outposts like Quon Loi didn't even rate bad American music. Bad Filipino would have to do. I went back to the company area for the night's perimeter duty.

Gilvey reported success on his assignment. We would get platoon patrol past Nao Dai in three days. I had the smarts not to ask him how he accomplished this. Sergeants do run the army, and an intelligent officer accepted the good and left explanations alone.

Company patrol the next day was quiet and boring, but did add another chapter to the fascinating flora and fauna of this green hell. Actually, I don't really know if ants are considered fauna. However, the hot and boring day wore on me, and I happened to look down as we passed through a less overgrown section of the Michelin. I noticed a large number of solid-black ants. This continued for about five meters when the ants changed to half black on their front and half yellow on their back end.

Interracial whoopee in the ant kingdom. Another five meters and all yellow ants covered the territory. Next were half yellow and half red. This at least let me warn the guys to watch for red ants, the bastards! Sure enough we went through a solid ten meter core of all red, all mean, little muthas. No one did the red ant strip, but we all swatted more than a few. This is like being in the bulls-eye of a target when the bullets are flying.

Then we hit yellow and red again. Followed at five meter intervals by all yellow, yellow and black, all black, and out of the target.

In less than fifty meters a microcosm of the universe. Conquest, surrender, divide, survive and all of us mongrels. Black, red, white, brown, yellow to determine sides, and let's all 'Kill commies for Christ!' People have no more sense than ants. Less! At least the ants had figured out a nice division of territory, and were obviously enjoying intermingling at the edges. And here I was smack dab in the middle of the target. Damn, if I've pissed off some Master of the Universe, I'm ready to apologize. Honest! A ticket home and you could have my eternal devotion. You listening, God?

Apparently, He was not. The day moved on—hot, boring, hot, sweaty, hot....

Patrol completed; surprise, we got perimeter duty. Around 0100 the distant thunder of small arms and claymores got our attention. Word came down that Alpha Company and Recon Platoon had triggered on a platoon sized group. No casualties reported on our side, so I let the news drift away on the night breeze and returned to my current Vanessa fantasy, which had a lot to do with a well air-conditioned room and dark red, silk sheets.

Shortly after dawn we were relieved from perimeter duty and returned to the company area for breakfast. My stomach full, I strolled down to the main gate area to catch MBD as Recon Platoon returned from their ambush. Recon duty being in the bush the majority of time, I hadn't seen my friend for a few weeks.

About twenty minutes after I got to the gate, they appeared out of the jungle, leading the way for Alpha Company. I waved as they came through the gate and shouted, "Hey MBD, you lazy son of a bitch, what's happening, man?"

His features broke into that amazing grin and he shouted back, "Hey, Mickey, you won't fucking believe what happened last night!"

I waved him over, "You shot Ho Chi Minh last night and the war is over. Plus you hit him twenty out of twenty shots."

"More bizarre! We killed Duke last night! The mother fucker was an NVA Lieutenant. But yeah, I did hit him with all twenty rounds."

"Yeah! And I suppose he was really Ho Chi Minh in disguise. Sure MBD, sure."

"Hey. I kid you not Mickey-san. We wasted the Duke."

"Are you shitting me? Duke? A North Vietnamese Army hardcore, fucking Lieutenant? No way! I don't believe it, man! Are you talking true or what?"

MBD shook his head. "I tell you fucking-A-one-hundred-percent truth. The little son of a bitch was leading a platoon of NVA troops through the woods. He was running point for them and I took him down myself. Believe me, I was totally blown away this morning when we saw who it was. He was wearing NVA Lieutenant pips and everything. We took boo koo papers off him. Intelligence will have a field day with that crap. They've already set out after his family. I guess they won't make it to work today."

"I'll bet not. Too bad, they were nice folks—for commie, gook bastards that is."

"Yeah, actually they were." MBD gave a twisted smile. "C'mon, I'll let you buy me a beer and we can catch up. I want to talk to you about an idea I have."

"Who could resist such an elegant invitation?" I grinned. "Lead on, Mon Brave."

I paid for two beers at the Officer's club and joined MBD at his table. The bar wasn't open yet and Sergeant Kramer, who ran the operation, was generally a stickler about such things, but Recon got special treatment, and MBD was rarely denied anything.

"Well, I've had a lot of SSDD with Captain Prick Fielder, but so far I'm hanging in there. My platoon's doing okay," I started. "What's the good word with you?"

"Same Shit, Different Day. Yeah, Mickey. That's what I wanted to talk to you about. I'm thinking about giving up Recon and getting into a more challenging line of work."

"More challenging? What the hell could possibly be more challenging? No! Not Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol. You aren't thinking about the Lurps are you? Man, you've got to be totally insane to do long range recon. You be crazy man, but not stupid. Tell me it ain't the Lurps."

"Worse" grinned MBD, "much worse. I'm giving serious consideration to becoming a tunnel rat."

I stared at him for a long time. Images of being trapped in an endless dark hole, unable to move forward or back, waiting for 'Trail' to arrive and end it, convulsed through me. "MBD," I whispered. "That isn't even funny man. Crawling through tunnels filled with booby traps and lots of small, brown brothers aching to kill you with no place to duck or hide. That has to be the strangest idea in a world of strange. What are you thinking, Bro'?"

MBD's face tightened up. "What? Don't you think I can handle it? I thought you would understand. Some fucking friend you are."

"Whoa! Stop right there. Hey, you and Leon are the only two men I've met over here that I believe can handle anything. You know I'm with you, if it's what you want. But help me understand why you want to be a T-Rat. It ain't adding up in my calculator."

"Okay. Okay. I'm sorry. I know you're with me. It's more I want to give up Recon and still do the job we're here to do. It's hard to explain. I mean—"

"I think I know," I interrupted. "You don't want to carry the responsibility for the lives of all your men, but you're no coward. So you figure that taking on the craziest job ever designed by the fucking army is your ticket out. That about right?"

His eyes widened far beyond what I would have thought possible. "How did you figure that out? Hell, I haven't really admitted it to myself, but you hit the bulls-eye. Damn, how did you know that?"

"No big deal," I shook my head. "The weight of command, so to speak, is already wearing my ass out, and we're not pulling Recon's missions."

"Sweet Jesus, that steel trap mind of yours ain't likely to be happy with what I want to ask you then. I want to recommend you to take my place with Recon."

My mind shimmied and splattered in several directions. One road of horror where everything I hate about this war increases a hundred-fold. Another road lined with guts, glory, adventure and greatness beckoned—They were both the same damn road. I took a large swallow of my Bud.

"MBD," I spoke slowly, "I'm really honored and completely horrified. I'm not sure I can maintain this pace with my platoon." I waved my hands feebly. "Recon is so far past that. I don't have Ranger training or any of that shit, man. I—there ain't—I don't think so. Thanks, but I pass."

"Colonel says I can pick my replacement. Forget the Ranger bit. It's great training, but you're a natural leader. Hell, everyone is amazed at the shit you've pulled off."

"Look, don't confuse my being lucky with being good. Besides, your guys wouldn't accept me. They're used to you. No! Can't help you. Pick someone else."

MBD grinned a cruel, sweet, beautiful smile like a tiger about to sink his fangs into its prey. "My men have already voted on it: They chose you from the three candidates I gave them. I'm told the voting was not all that close."

Attention Problem Solving Central. Emergency! Emergency! The ship is sinking. Help!

P.S.C. was prompt. Tell him about Noi Dai.

What! Are you crazy?

Just trust me.

"MBD, have you told the Colonel what your choice is yet?"

"Not yet, Mickey. The timetable is in my hands."

"I love you for thinking I could handle this. But I want you to wait two more days. I think something is going to happen soon, and I won't be on the Colonel's list of acceptable candidates after that."

"What? What's going to happen?"

"I can't give you details and you wouldn't want to know. Believe me. I won't be a viable candidate, and you would not be looked on with fondness for suggesting me. Hell, Colonel might make you keep Recon."

"Damn it, Mickey," MBD glowered. "That ain't enough for me. You've got to give me more."

"I'm going to try to cure Noi Dai from being a pain in the ass, or at least from bothering my ass."

MBD gulped. "How the fuck are you going to—never mind. You are right. You are crazier than I am."

"Who you calling crazy, T-Rat? Talk about the black pot calling the fine dining silver an idiot. Won't catch me crawling through no damn tunnels."

We both laughed. Two beers later we parted for our respective areas.

Perimeter duty that night passed without incident.

The next day company patrol found Second Platoon in the lead following a route into a rain-swollen swamp. The Captain, naturally, was not interested in altering course.

The cold brown water deepened as we worked through the brush. Soon we were actually walking across underwater vegetation instead of touching solid ground. Walking on bushes worked okay for those of us in the front of the column but as the shrubbery got pressed down it left those farther back deeper in water with less secure footing.

Finally, my platoon returned to stable firmament. The rest of the company, including the Captain, were still struggling through the water. My R.T.O. fielded a call for the Captain from Battalion. The REMFs wanted us to change our direction. I knew if the Captain took the call at that moment, he would reverse in place and we would have to retrace our journey through the swamp. I doubted we could make it back. On the other hand, if we waited five minutes to advise the Captain of the call—

"Major, the Captain is coming up to my position. I'll have him on the phone in a few minutes. Wait, please."

Ten minutes later I handed the mike to a totally drenched and unhappy Captain. "Battalion for you, Sir."

Within the space of two sentences the Captain was ardently stating how impossible it would be to alter our route.

He's wet enough. I smirked as I walked over to my men. Good to have the mad wet hen on my side for a change.

The men were checking each other for another water hazard offered by this lovely land. Leeches. Segmented, black worms. Blood sucking worms. Latching on to your skin, they had to be persuaded to let go usually with a lit match. If not removed they would keep slurping growing larger until, rumor had it, they would explode. Pulled off, the head would separate from the body and blood would continue to gush out of the fangs. Messy and hard to stop the flow.

I had one of the suckers on my pant leg. No problem. A number of guys had them on skin and were dealing with them.

"Criminy! I ain't never seen anything like that!" Doc exclaimed.

Moving quickly to his side, I looked down at Coyote. He was sprawled back with his legs spread wide. The expression on his face said hell has just heated up. The leech gobbling away at his testicle confirmed his assessment.

Doc and the others helped the morose Coyote amid much laughter and many obscene and derisive comments. The leech, with great delicacy and stolid deliberation in the application of a match, was removed.

We resumed march on a different heading but not back through the swamp. The Captain was proud of how he had maneuvered Battalion so he avoided further maritime adventures.

My maneuvering of the Captain hadn't been too shabby either.

Back at base I sent Coyote to the medicos to check his grotesquely swollen assets. He returned an hour later with medical clearance and a Doctor's note that authorized him to go pantless for twenty-four hours due to sensitivity. He was wearing a shirt tied around his waist like a hula skirt.

Everyone was standing around making the proper inappropriate comments.

"There are men, and there is a man!"

"Your girlfriend's gonna' love it, but how you gonna' 'splain it?"

The jeep sporting two stars screeched to a halt nearby. Captain Fielder hustled over to greet General Ward. I was right behind the Captain and we saluted together.

The General was not pleased. "Captain, what the hell is going on here? You got a company of perverts, or what?"

"Well, uh, Sir ... uh, General ... that is ..." the Captain stammered.

The General puffed up in righteous anger. "I won't have such damn deviant behavior under my command. Do you understand me, Captain?"

I jumped in. "Sir, I can explain. It's actually just a matter of a man having balls as big as a grapefruit!"

"What?" the General screamed.

"Well General, it seems a leech took up temporary residency in my man's ... uh, sensitive zone." I pointed between my legs to clarify. "And a temporary medical waiver, quite temporary, of the normally required uniform has been issued."

The General took in my explanation, shook his head, then smiled. "Well, I guess it's good to have soldiers under my command who have prodigious balls."

We saluted. He departed.

The following morning I reported to Captain Fielder to receive the assignment we waited for.

Almost slobbering with glee, he said, "Lieutenant, your platoon will eagle flight out to a clearing due west of Hill 836 and take a patrol along an azimuth of 85 degrees for one klick and then turn due north and patrol to your pick up point at these coordinates." He handed me a map. "You will be passing Noi Dai and I remind you of the policy restraining firing into the village."

"Noi Dai!" I exploded. "With just a platoon! That's fucking insane! Who's bright idea is this anyway?"

"Lieutenant! Watch yourself. You are on the brink of disobeying direct orders from the Colonel. Who the hell do you think you are?"

"Sir! Yes, Sir. I apologize." I lowered my eyes. "I guess I better go get my platoon ready. With your permission, Sir?"

"Dismissed. And don't forget the policy."

"Yes Sir." I saluted and turned away. Payback is definitely, DEFINITELY A MUTHA!

Our Eagle Flight lifted off at 0845 and set us down without incident at 0905. We set course quickly and, moving with quiet determination, made good time to the vicinity of Noi Dai. As expected, the sniper rounds started as soon as the village came into view. We reacted immediately without command. "Operation Up Yours Charlie" flew into action.

Leon set his squad in a skirmish line covering the left flank, and I set Fat Michael's squad on the right flank. In the center we dropped the tube and base plate and six runners moved through each squad gathering the mortar rounds. Michael handled the tube on the basis of his skill with the blooper. Gilvey dropped the rounds.

Michael put on the asbestos glove and went to work.

WHOOMP!—WHOOMP!—WHOOMP!—BANG! BANG! BANG!

He fired quickly, a round about every six seconds. Our goal was ten per minute so the fire mission of one hundred and twenty rounds would be completed within twelve minutes. We didn't want anyone to have time to fly a chopper out and catch us in the act.

For the first few minutes of the fire mission I watched carefully for any potential counter attack. I only witnessed one little brown brother jumping for his bunker. They must have practiced a lot. By the end of two minutes I could detect no movement.

At that point, I stood up tapped my R.T.O. on the shoulder, and said, "Come with me." I turned and walked south, away from the platoon and the village. I stopped when I had put about seventy-five meters distance between me and my platoon. I stood with my arms crossed staring to the south.

A couple of minutes passed. Weiler spoke, "Mickey, Uhhh, what are we doing?"

"Just wait for it," I replied.

The call came after two more minutes. "Captain wants to talk to you, Sir." Weiler handed me the mike.

"Six, this is your Six. What can I do for you?" I calmly spoke into the radio.

"Lieutenant, what the hell is going on out there? The Colonel received a call that you are shooting at Noi Dai and he is steaming mad. You were warned about that." Fielder screamed!

"Six, I'm very aware of your orders. From my position it appears the ville is being shelled by a sixty mike mike. As you know, we are not authorized to carry one of those."

I could vividly imagine the contortions on Fielder's face. His voice reflected some of that. "What? I—sixty mike mike!—but that—Shit! Wait one."

Several minutes passed. The shelling continued.

"Mickey Six? Are you there?" Fielder's voice seemed very strained.

"Six, this is your Six. I'm here." I made my voice as sweet and calm as possible. "What can I do for you?"

"Uh. The Colonel wants to know if you can see who's doing the shelling."

"Six, I have a pretty good view of the overall situation, but—unfortunately— from my present position, I can not see who is doing the firing."

"Uh—Okay. Wait one." The lost sound in Fielder's voice seemed a treasure almost worth a war crime.

After a few more minutes Fielder's strained voice came over the airwaves again."Mickey, the Colonel wants you to search the area and see if you can identify the ones dong the shelling."

"Affirmative, Six. Search the area and try to find the ones shelling. Any action if we spot them?"

"Just call and confirm."

"Roger. Out." I looked at Weiler and we both started laughing so hard it bent us over from the spasms.

We returned to the platoon as the last round left the barrel. "Gilvey, let's round 'em up and move 'em out before Charlie figures out how few of us there are and decides to get nasty."

"Roger Mickey! You heard the man. Move it now, ladies!"

In less than two minutes we were vacating the area. Fat Michael next to me, breathed a bit hard from the exertion of holding that tube for a hundred and twenty rounds.

"Michael. How did it look from your seat?"

"Hey, Mickey. We dusted all over that ville. I seriously doubt we killed anything more than a chicken or two though. Too damn bad!"

"Not a problem, Michael. This round was just a message that we are serious. I have my doubts that the fine residents of Noi Dai will ever fire at us again."

"Probably true, Mickey. But what if they do?"

"Then I guess we'll use a bigger mortar next time and kill a few of them. They aren't stupid, Michael. They don't want to die any more than us. They'll behave."

Altering our route slightly allowed us to throw the tube and base plate in the river to be used nevermore. We still arrived at our pick up point earlier than planned, and rested and waited before calling for our ride home. A confrontation with Fielder loomed.

The choppers lifted, taking us back to Quon Loi. I reflected on the day and the meaning of what we had done. P.S.C. agreed with me. Look what you've got me into now! I guess we take care of our guys and keep in mind no one else can be trusted. This is a helluva way to run a war.

Yeah, I responded, but we sent Charles a sincere message and Fielder can't change that.

True, all he can do is hang us.
Ahh! Quit your bitching. Who wants to live forever anyway? Besides us I mean.

Fielder seemed determined to hang me.

"Lieutenant, what the hell went down out there?" he screamed. "The Colonel is in deep shit with brigade and this shit may go all the way to Division at Lai Khe. I know you pulled this crap. I just don't know how you did it. But I'm going to find out and—and—What the hell went on out there?"

"Sir," my voice low and icy calm, "As I told you we aren't authorized to carry a sixty mike mike, and I was not in a position to see who was doing the firing."

"Lies! Just Lies!" Fielder shouted.

"Captain," I hissed, "everything I've said is absolutely true. If you call me a liar again I will disregard your rank and insist on satisfaction."

"Satisfaction? What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm saying don't call me a liar again, or I'll challenge you to a duel and kill you."

"A duel? Are you fucking crazy? People don't fight duels anymore."

"Fine. Then I'll skip the challenge part and just kill you."

"Threatening a superior officer? I'll have you court martialed."

"No threat, Sir. A friendly warning. Don't call me a liar again. I'm advising you for your own safety."

That caused him to splutter. Good, keep him angry and away from asking any intelligent questions.

"This isn't over," he finally managed to spit out. "You crossed the line this time, and I'm going to see you pay for it. Dismissed. Dismissed! Get out of here!"

I complied with a smile, happy that he wasn't smart enough to catch me, and knowing the smile pissed him off even more.

Later that evening, Seven O'clock Charlie took his shot and six Huey Cobras hit the air. Within minutes they brought their fiery version of hell to bear on a nearby hillside. The report relayed rapidly around Quon Loi—Seven O'clock was no more.

What a fucking war! They unleash the Hounds of Hell to gun down some poor sucker who doesn't want to hurt anybody, and I'm in trouble for slowing down the assholes trying to kill us. Vietnam sucks the big one!

****

Chapter 8 ~ I Could'a Been Killed

Judging from the lack of reaction, at least officially, Division Brass were not nearly as upset as the Captain. Of course, the alternative meant they knew they could not pin anything on me and my men and awaited further developments. I made a mental note Watch for both booby traps in the field and traps by the booby in command.

Two days after we sent our special greeting to Noi Dai, we were on company search and destroy and passed that "peaceful" ville. Second had point, and as we passed in sight of the Vietnamese in the field, several of them raised up, waved and hollered, "Hey GI Numbah One! Numbah One for Sure!"

"Hey, Charlie, Number One!" I shouted and waved in reply.

I could not see the Captain, but word quickly passed that he had a look on his face best described as "Confused, Dazed, and Angry. Very angry!" I confess the report warmed the cockles of my heart, and I enjoy warm cockles almost as much as not being shot at.

The day wore on, hot, sweaty, and delirious without end, the same as most days. In the early afternoon we moved out of the Michelin undergrowth into a rice paddy. George had point, followed by Private Montgomery. I was next in line and paused a moment to scan the horizon for any potential problem areas.

"Hey, Mickey, hold up a moment," Gilvey yelled as he emerged from the jungle. "We need to talk."

"Sure, Sarge. Anything important? Or are you just trying to go off and become a REMF again?"

"Mickey. Would I do that to you? I mean . . ."

KRACKITA! KRACKITA!

The deep and fearful cough of a fifty caliber erupted into the universe and all other thoughts vanished. I pivoted back toward the point and heard the simultaneous thud and piercing scream as Montgomery took a round in the shoulder. The impact lifted and threw him about ten feet and it looked as if his arm was nearly detached.

"Gilveee!" I yelled. "Help me!" I raced to Montgomery. Before I reached him, George had taken two strides, grabbed Montgomery's M-16 from the ground, turned and fired at the fifty with an M-16 in each hand on semi-auto fire...

BANG!

With the right.

BANG!

With the left.

BANG!

Right.

BANG!

Left.

I clutched the back of Montgomery's harness and Gilvey grabbed the legs. We hauled him straight back about ten meters to cover behind a dike...

KRACKITA! KRACKITA!

I was keenly aware of the continuing fire from the fifty. Part of my mind knew the troops still in the jungle were moving on line to the left to provide support fire; another part knew George was exposed beyond belief and there was no way to change that. Gilvey and I set Montgomery down behind the dike, and we both turned our weapons to bear on the fifty.

As I fired past George, I saw his open shirt flap around his skinny frame as he continued...

BANG!

Right.

BANG!

Left.

KRACKITA! KRACKITA!...consumed all the space around George and a good deal of the area in my immediate vicinity.

My thirty round banana clip emptied and I flipped over to the twenty round clip taped to it upside down.

George went...

BANG!

Right.

BANG!

Left.

CLICK!

Right.

CLICK!

Left.

His back stiffened and for a moment he froze in place. Support fire erupted from the tree line, answered by...

KRACKITA! KRACKITA!

"George," I screamed, "Get the hell out of there!"

George performed an amazing slow motion pirouette with two M-16s extended at right angles to his body and ran directly at me with each stride marked by an M-16 pointing straight at the heavens. I moved to my right to provide an angle for cover fire and laid my rounds towards the fifty, absolutely determined that it would not nail George.

KRACKITA! BANG! BANG! KRACKITA!

The firefight symphony played and George ran.

KRACKITA! KRACKITA! KRACKITA! BANG! BANG!

There was no way, yet he ran. About two strides out from me, George jumped into the air and kicked both feet forward. He sailed past me parallel to the earth. I concentrated on firing. He thumped to the ground like a sack of grain.

My magazine emptied, and I heard a sound from George that mixed a laugh, a cough, and a moan all into one. I turned and looked.

George lay flat on his back with both arms bent at the elbows pointing the M-16s at the sky. His face contorted with emotions beyond the capacity of any human to hold or any words to describe.

"George," I managed. "You all right?"

He turned his head to me, and his eyes struggled to focus. His arms slowly lowered the M-16s. Finally, his mouth opened and he let out a small, raspy cough.

"Mickey, I—I could'a been killed."

"No shit, George!" was all the wisdom I had to offer. I returned my attention to the fifty. Charlie must have figured he had enough fun for the day. The shooting stopped. After a short interval it was clear he had left the field.

Doc Flores tended to Montgomery and called in a dust-off. I sat with George to make sure he didn't need to be lifted out. He assured me, "Not a scratch," and stood up. His shirt billowed in the breeze.

"Oh my God! I don't believe it. George, check out your shirt.'

Slightly befuddled, he complied. There were three clear fifty caliber size holes in the fabric. He shuddered, gave an insane grin, stuck his finger through one of the holes, and whispered, "Don't mean nothin', Mickey. Don't mean nothin'!"

"Don't mean nothin' for sure." I agreed because I had no other choice.

Back at Quon Loi we faced some changes. The company medic reached DEROS and Fielder tapped Flores for the new Company Medic. I hated that but couldn't criticize it. Doc was the best, both as a medic and as a leader. I damn sure hated to lose him from the platoon. His replacement, Private Joseph Landham, brought an interesting challenge of his own. He was a C.O.A. conscientious objector.

"Say what? You want to explain that to me so I can understand what the hell you're doing here, Private Landham?"

"Sir, I can not and will not participate in actions of violence towards another human being. I won't carry or fire a weapon or even carry ammunition. However, I am a well trained medic. I will come for any soldier who is injured and do my best to save and protect that person. Because I don't carry weapons, I can carry more medical supplies and do a better job for the men. I am not a coward, and I won't let you or the men down. I just won't participate in the fighting."

"Well, I think you may have some persuading to do in terms of the men in the platoon. They're pretty much hard core combat vets, and they will figure it out quickly if you are trying to bs them. If you're straight about it, I think it will work out. You might ask Doc Flores for some help persuading them. If he's on your side, the men will come around."

Second Platoon had three other new recruits assigned to it. Privates Butler, Moore, and Zimmer. The first two were very muscular, body builder types. Butler a five foot eight tall black man had the nickname Hercules, and Moore his shorter white counterpart was called Sampson. Zimmer stood out simply because he was six foot five. I assigned Hercules and Sampson to Fat Michael's squad, Zimmer to Leon's.

Gilvey had, in fact, identified a position at Division Ops in Lai Khe. "I'll be moving down there in early July. My replacement should be here by July First. I'll be taking R and R to Australia on July Sixth. I'll miss you, Mickey, but not so much that I'm inclined to keep rucking in the boonies."

"Sure, Sarge. I've always known you had it in you to be a fucking REMF. Just go and desert your comrades in arms. Don't worry about us. We'll survive, somehow. We'll hold it together, somehow—some way. Never mind that you are abandoning all that is good and right just to be a chicken shit REMF, safe in your little bunker. We'll survive, somehow...."

"Give it a break, Mickey. You'd join me if you could." Gilvey grinned. "And we both know that's true.

"Absolutely, Sarge, but I'm still going to harass you. For real though, thanks for what you've done for me and the men. We'd have been in deep doo doo more than a few times without you."

"Hey, don't get sentimental on me, Mickey. I'll let you buy me a beer though."

"Done, Sarge. See if Leon and Fat Michael want to join us. They should be given the news too."

Doc Flores joined us around the fourth beer. "Hey, Mickey, did you hear about the new PX?"

"New? Gee the current one is so palatial, why would anyone want a new one?"

"Brass thinks we're coming up in the world. Supposed to be six thousand square feet. They're planning ten days of truck convoys to fill it when it's built. Bet Charlie will have fun shooting them up, and we'll get lots of road clearing missions."

"Oh, wonderful!" Fat Michael sighed. "Fucking Charlie builds those home made claymore mines with a metal ring, a concrete shell, and filled with everything from scrap metal to buffalo dung and primed with boo koo powder. Then he plants them in the underbrush next to the road and triggers them from a hundred meters away. And we get to walk down the road looking for them." He twirled his finger in the air. "Whoopee!"

"Hey," laughed Leon. "You looking to live forever or something? At least it's easier walking than hiking the boonies."

"I'll drink to that," interjected Gilvey. "I hate hiking in the fucking boonies."

"We'll all drink to that," I added. And we did.

My hangover the next morning was mild. The assignment, however, was a company force eagle flight and a hike—in the boonies. Third had point, followed by Second, with First on trail. Although the patrol seemed like an easy assignment for Second, we would land first at an unsecured landing zone. The area promised a good possibility of a hot LZ, making first-in the plum assignment. Nothing new from Fielder on this one.

The first five choppers settled onto the LZ, a narrow field with ample cover for Charlie to sit in the trees and use us for target practice. Even with two Huey Cobras flying cover for us, this was not a comforting thought. My platoon hit the ground running and had a perimeter set within thirty seconds of touching down. We drew no fire, and I detected no enemy presence.

"Six, Mickey Six, the LZ is clear. Repeat the LZ is clear. Bring them on in. Out," I radioed Fielder. As I set to work expanding the perimeter, it looked like the day might be a quiet one—for a change.

The remaining choppers landed in good order and Third moved out on point. We fell in behind them, and First closed up behind us. We quickly fell into the rhythm of the day. Hike, sweat. Hike, sweat. Around noon, Fielder called a lunch break and briefed us.

"About one click to the east we'll reach Hill 837. Intelligence believes it is a staging area for the region. Our assignment is to check that out, and if we find Charlie there, kick him off the hill." Fielder puffed up like a cock ready to jump the hens. "Third has done a good job on point this morning. Second will take point after lunch. First will continue on trail. Any questions?"

"Yes, Sir,"I said. "Not that I'm particularly impressed with the level of intelligence possessed by Intelligence, but do they have any projection as to how many of the enemy might be occupying this staging area? How dug in they are? Or what support infrastructure they may have built up?"

"No, Lieutenant," Fielder hissed. "That is what we are here to determine. Do you have some problem with that?"

"Problem? Why, no Sir. It just strikes me that we might have prepared a bit differently, maybe carried extra ammunition or such, had we known what the assignment was."

"Well you know what it is now. Intelligence didn't think it advisable to risk word leaking out that we were coming. Their informants emphasized that we should hit this quickly and quietly."

"Informants! Good God! We're probably being sent into a trap, and you didn't even let us know to load up on ammo. Damn!"

"That will be enough, Lieutenant. You're being insubordinate. Again! Get back to your platoon and prepare to do your job without all this griping. Dismissed!"

I fought down my anger, returned to my platoon and briefed my guys. "That marvel of stupidity known as Military Intelligence has combined forces with the Captain and, as you might expect, it is our anal passage which is about to be abused. We have point, and we're aimed at walking into a staging area of unknown size. I want everybody checked, full magazines and ready to rock and roll. When we get close enough to the hill, we'll go to a three pronged point and do our best to trash anybody we find. Questions?"

"How about asking the Captain to have First Platoon prepared to move to either flank as needed?" Gilvey asked. "Might save a few minutes and a few lives."

"Good idea. I'll take care of it. Anything else?—Okay. Stay sharp people! It likely will be a hummer."

The men dispersed to prepare their squads and I searched out my new medic. "It looks like some heavy shit coming this afternoon. Your services will likely be required. Might be a good opportunity to impress the men with your dedication. Are you ready?"

"Yes, Sir," he answered. "Willing and able. I'll do what is needed."

"Good. I'll focus on other things. Take care of my people."

Vietnam being a coastal country, most of it is not very much above sea level. Hill 837, so designated because its peak was 837 feet above sea level, would rise over 500 feet from its base.

We took an hour to reach the hill. Its invisible peak was hidden in the basic Michelin trees and undergrowth. Our tension had increased with every step. We stopped about a hundred and fifty meters from the base of the hill to assess what lay ahead.

"Hell! They're there and waiting," Coyote snarled. "I've been feeling it for five hundred meters."

"No surprise in that," I responded. "Question is: how many and how prepared are they? Leon, Michael, Gilvey, three headed point."

"Roger, Mickey" Gilvey said. "Leon right, Michael left. I've got the middle. Ready to move on your call, Mickey."

Yo, Problem Solving Central. Any bright ideas. I don't see good things happening here.

Very perceptive. Keep focused and keep the guys moving up the hill.

Wonderful advice, just amazing. Any other tidbits?

Yeah, if it gets real bad, you can always take your shirt off to get closer to the ground.

"Move out." I motioned. "Slow pace to the bottom; when we start up, don't plan on stopping until we're on top."

Moving at half normal speed we reached the base of the hill in fifteen minutes. I motioned the points to spread an additional ten meters apart to twenty-five meters and proceed. We still had no overt sign of an enemy presence, but little doubt that Charlie was home, waiting for us.

Fifty meters up, Leon called. "Mickey, we have what looks like a good sized ravine about a hundred meters to the right. Could be a Ho Chi Minh expressway."

"Okay, Leon. I'll pass it to the Captain."

KAWHOOM! KRACKITA! BOOM!

Fire and brimstone engulfed the world, and reason fled the universe. Enemy fire flowed from all sides, filling all space, consuming the very air we breathed. Damn! My guys returned it in kind—hard core. The sheer intensity of the fighting dictated control of the battlefield immediately shifting to the squad leaders.

Fat Michael sprayed the underbrush to the left with shotgun rounds from his M-79 and led his squad up the hill to close with the enemy. Leon rapid fired single rounds, scattering them at various targets and moved his squad forward and towards the center where Gilvey led his men up the hill.

I dropped to one knee, grabbed the radio and called the Captain. "Six, heavy contact! We're advancing. Deep gully on the right may work as a route for Charlie to move troops. Suggest First Platoon move up the right flank and deal with it."

"Roger, Mickey. How many enemy have you got?"

"Captain, we've got boo koo VC. I'll have to count them for you later, Right now we're busy trying to kill them, so I'll pass on further chit chat. Out!"

My personal radar, overburdened with hundreds of rounds flying through the air, was not much use. Bullets flew every which way. Explosions came both frequent and unpredictable. I was without a clue on where to focus my attention. I flipped the selector switch on my M-16 to semi-automatic and moved toward Gilvey's location...

KRACKITA!

A burst of AK fire to my right drew a chorus of responses toward its source from several M-16s including mine...

WHOOM!

An explosion to my left commanded my attention. We forged upward, through the flames of individual fights too numerous to deal with other than one on one.

The simple strategy of direct, rapid assault seemed to be working. We overran the first area of resistance, apparently without any casualties on our part. "Form up on line!" I hollered. "Keep moving! Try to stay together!" The guys responded and moved into something resembling a ragged line...

KRACKITA! BOOM! KRACKITA! WHOOM!

Massive amounts of fire hit our right flank and several men screamed as they were hit. "Damn!" I roared. "Leon! Turn to the flank! Take them head on! Let's do it!"

I rushed to that side, thumbed my M-16 to full auto and sprayed rounds up and down the line in the hope of suppressing some of that deadly fire. With a moment of relief I glimpsed my medic running to help one of the wounded and dismissed that concern to concentrate on the battle at hand.

Crazy George came into view on my left. He had fixed his bayonet on his rifle and proceeded to skewer one of the enemy on it. As frequently happens, the knife twisted in the body and George had to struggle to free it. I fired a short burst past him, aimed at the buddy of the man hanging from his rifle. He ducked. George fired a burst from his M-16 to free his weapon of its burden and turned to deal with the man I had shot at.

Mental note: George is past any point of sanity. Get him out of the field, soonest.

The more immediate concerns of battle then took precedence. I reached for the radio to call for support from First Platoon. They negated the need by roaring up the ravine in full scale assault to flank the enemy who had flanked us. I was about to thank God when a VC chose me as his specific target and sprayed AK rounds at me.

I pulled my weapon up to fire from my hip, squeezed the trigger and fired the one remaining round in my rifle. "Oh shit!" I yelled. I yanked the empty magazine out, dropped it, and slammed a fresh one home. I triggered the seating mechanism and fired a small burst – twenty rounds – in the direction of the unpleasant fellow who wanted to ruin my day. I repeated the process with another magazine. Halfway through that burst I felt a small sting under my collar. My opponent vanished and the rounds headed my way ceased abruptly.

We linked with First Platoon and our assault moved up the hill. I found myself next to Leon. Five black-pajama clad figures, grasping AK47s with fixed bayonets, broke cover in front of us in a counter charge. I dropped the two on the right as Leon did the same on the left. I ignored the middle man and turned back to my right to locate Lt. Hall. Leon took out the third VC, as I knew he would.

"John!" I yelled. "Can you keep pace up that gully? I don't want to slow down."

"Go for it, Mickey! We've got the flank!"

We charged up the hill. The non-stop combat and strenuous uphill climb through the underbrush strewn terrain slowed our progress. Surprisingly, the resistance diminished as we approached the crest. Fat Michael's squad reached the top first, but the rest of the ragged line came close behind. First Platoon, with a tougher path, joined us minutes later. I called for reports. Gilvey and the squad leaders established a perimeter.

"Six, this is Mickey. We're at the top setting a perimeter, four wounded in my platoon and I think First has two wounded. We're preparing for a possible counter-attack but it looks like we mostly caught them by surprise."

"Okay, Lieutenant. I'm on my way up. Body count ?"

"Just preliminary. Maybe twenty."

"Good. Hold the top. I'll be there shortly."

I shook my head. "Ouch! What the hell?" My neck stung on the right side.

Leon snorted. "Hell, Mickey. Your collar's been ripped by an AK round. Let me look at you." He reached and pulled what remained of the collar out of the way. "Looks like a nice bullet burn, but no serious harm. I'll get you some salve for that." He smirked. "I thought you never got shot."

"Hey, Leon. A miss is as good as a mile." I managed a slight smile to disguise the massive churning in my stomach.

Damn! Fucking round almost took my head off and I never even heard it. I guess it's true. You don't hear the one that gets you. Geeze! I hope I never get to confirm that.

With the assistance of First Platoon, we established a secure perimeter to defend against a counter-attack. Lt. Hall and I consulted with our medics on our wounded.

Private Landham reported, "Sir, of the six wounded, two can't walk on their own, both have leg wounds. None of the injured have immediate life-threatening situations, but they should all be evac'ed at the earliest possible."

"John, if you'll call the Captain about dust-offs, I'll start with Gilvey and your Top on the perimeter defense." I offered.

"You always take the easy end. Why don't you talk to Captain Prick?"

"Hey man, you know how much he dislikes me. You're still on his possible list for a pocket pool buddy. Better chance to get the guys out if you call."

"Pocket pool, my ass!" Hall shivered. "Okay, I'll call, but you owe me."

"Deal." I grinned.

Our success in taking the hill put Fielder in a good mood and we called for dust-offs with baskets to be lowered through the canopy so we didn't need to clear a landing zone. He was even moderately satisfied with our defensive set-up.

Fielder called in to Battalion HQ and reported forty-five enemy killed and mission accomplished. I thought I had stretched it when I gave him a body count of possibly twenty. He, as usual, significantly distorted the reality.

I didn't mind. It kept the Brass happy, and happy Brass were less inclined to fuck with us. At least, that was my theory.

Fielder talked with HQ and then briefed us. "The dust-offs should be here in another fifteen minutes. As soon as they have the wounded we will form up with First in the lead, Third in the middle and Second on trail. The Colonel wants us to take a route to the west. There is a good area for pick-up about two klicks over."

"Excuse me, Sir," I interrupted. "Do I understand that we are not going to occupy this hill nor pursue Charlie?"

"That's the plan. You have a problem with that, Lieutenant?"

"Well Sir, it's just that we have six men wounded. I think keeping the property they paid for would be nice."

"The Colonel doesn't agree with you, so get over it! You did good taking this hill. Don't screw it up now."

I said nothing, but nodded to the Captain.

So much for my theory on keeping the Brass happy. I guess they will always find the energy to fuck with us.

Dust-offs through the canopy by basket are tricky. We were fortunate to have an opening through the trees of about ten by fifteen feet. In about half an hour the wounded were lifted and on their way to Charlie Med at Quon Loi. We pulled up stakes and moved out on patrol as the choppers departed.

Having Second Platoon on trail meant we would be the last off the hill and most vulnerable to a counter-attack. The order of march didn't surprise me. I felt the concentric rings of a target between my shoulder blades. If I were paranoid, I would have thought the Captain liked exposing me and my men to the worst danger spots.

Just because you're paranoid, doesn't mean they're not out to get you, P.S.C. chimed in.

Great! Pleasant thoughts for a pleasant walk through the woods. I just want to get off this godforsaken lump of rocks and trees without getting shot at.

We anticipated sniping and harassing fire on the trek to the pick up LZ. I knew I would have wanted payback in Charlie's place. The hike was surprisingly uneventful, our choppers were on time to meet us, and we got back to Quon Loi a couple of hours before dark. The news from Charlie Med was excellent. All wounded would survive and one of John's and one of mine had million dollar wounds. They were headed home. Another of mine would be laid up long enough to make his DEROS. His boonies time was over. The others, my two and John's one, would have about two weeks vacation and return to us.

For the good work on the day, we got the evening off. Most of the guys headed for the beer garden. I managed an extra long shower and early sack time, with prospects for a good night's sleep. My wounded men were in my thoughts, but I was grateful for only wounded and quite few at that.

Vanessa moaned sweetly as I caressed her tender nipples and her soft—

"Mickey! Mickey! Wake up. We've got a situation here. C'mon, Mickey, rise and shine, son."

Goddamed ghoul 'Trail' beckoning me. Luring me to join the haunted platoon. You're dead, asshole. Leave me the fuck alone—

"Uhhh, Wha, Who? Gilvey!" I groaned. "This better be good. You've no clue what you just snatched me from. What the hell is going on?"

"Sorry, Mickey." Gilvey grinned, but he clearly wasn't happy. "It's George living up to his nickname. Boo Koo crazy! Running around the base with his 16 loaded and bayonet fixed. He got crosswise with a Lieutenant from Alpha company. That gentleman won't let it go without talking to you."

"Wonderful," I moaned. "Fucking Wonderful!" I rose trying to shake the sleep from my body. It left slowly, in pursuit of amazing dreams. I followed Gilvey thinking of various tortuous deaths I intended to inflict on George.

"Lt. Cushing, this is my Six, Mickey." Gilvey introduced us. We shook hands.

"Hey, Cushing. Steve Cushing. Been hearing about you, Mickey."

"Steve, I wasn't there. I didn't do it. And if I did do it. I had a damn good reason." I ventured.

He nodded. "Yeah, Mickey, know what you mean. Problem is one of your boys has done it. Dinkydau fucker attacked three of my guys. With a fucking fixed bayonet, for Chrissakes!"

"Yeah," I grimaced. "That sounds like the Crazy George we know and love. No one injured, I hope?"

"Fortunately no. But this can't ever happen again. My guys are really steamed."

"Roger. George is in his eighteenth month in the field and recently had an epiphany. Figured out he was mortal. Shook him up some." I stared hard into Steve's eyes, needing him to understand. To my relief, he nodded.

"He the one that danced straight up with that fifty?" he asked.

"The same. And I need to get him out of the field. He's dangerous to the wrong people now."

"Okay, Mickey, I'll try to get my guys to cool down. Just don't let him loose like that again. Might turn out bad."

"Mucho thanks, Steve. Owe you one."

We headed back to our area. "Gilvey, you want to bring that walking corpse to my tent, or do I need to see him away from any chance of wrong persons walking in on us?"

"Privacy is best, Mickey."

"Great! Fucking Great. Lay on McDuff and cursed be . . ." I faded out with blood-thirsty images of sticking a hundred bayonets into George and followed.

All that went away as soon as I saw him sitting on the ground surrounded by his buddies sitting on sandbags. They watched over him as if he were the baby Jesus himself. Never in my life had I seen a soul so naked, exposed, and helpless. This once mighty, near unconquerable warrior had nothing left to offer. Nothing to defend himself with. No excuse. No explanation. His face was simply blank and inanimate. He looked as if he had no hope for life, let alone happiness. The tiniest, self-deprecating smile danced momentarily on his lips when he saw me.

"Guess I humped the pooch good this time, Mickey?"

"Well, George, you made that poor hound's butt ache for sure. But, I think we can fix it. C'mon, sit over here with me and we'll talk."

We moved a short distance from the others and sat. "Care to tell me about it, George?"

"Not much to say." He shrugged. "I was sure Charlie was coming in for me, and I figured I'd take an honor guard with me. It was a hell of a shock when I realized it was Americans I was fixing to stick—and then—it was like that guy on the hill was hanging from my rifle and I couldn't get him off—and the damned rifle was so fucking heavy. I just sat down and gave it up." He paused for a long deep breath, "Mickey, I'm fucked. Can't do it no more man. Just can not...."

I placed my hand on his shoulder, "Okay, George. You've done your share plus several other guy's. Let it rest, soldier. I'll get you home from here."

And when the time comes your honor guard will be full and complete. I hope I'll be there to see it.

A stifled sob came from George. Not crying. Warriors do not cry, and he surely was in that elite category. "Right, Mickey. You call it."

"In the morning, I'll place you on sick call. You stay there until DEROS. That's what? Nine more days?"

"Yeah, nine. That's all."

"Figure up a strained leg muscle that makes you limp or whatever you're comfortable with as a cover. We'll get you home with no more time in the boonies. I promise." I left him with his buddies, told Gilvey to fill in our medic in the morning, and returned to my tent to attempt to reclaim the dream of my all-time favorite go-go girl. Never happened, but the ghosts didn't return either. Morning too soon arrived, of course.

My ruse worked, and we got through two patrols over the next three days without George. I hoped we could run the table for nine days. Fielder wasn't generally that observant. At the end of patrol on day three, the eight ball scratched.

"Mickey, Fielder wants to see you right now," my R.T.O. delivered the bad news. "He's found out about George, and is he pissed!"

"Tell him I'm on my way,' I shrugged. "And pray if you know any."

"Lieutenant, what in hell do you think you're doing? You've put a man on sick leave for the last three days who is perfectly healthy! For God's sake, he is shirking his duty in the face of the enemy and you are helping him do it! You could both be court martialed for this."

Fielder seemed to be in fine form – unreasonable and idiotic – truly fine form.

"Sir, I think you are overstating things. First off, George is sick—"

"Bullshit! He's healthy as a horse!"

"No, Sir. He may be fine physically, but he has cracked. He is no good to us in the field. He is in fact dangerous to us."

"Again, bullshit! The man is a coward, afraid to do his duty and—"

"Whoa! How can you fucking say that! He's done his duty for eighteen long, fucking months. Two purple hearts, a bronze and silver star and more goddamned combat than you will ever see. He's only got six damned days left in country. Why don't you give him a fucking break? Let him go home."

"Lieutenant, watch your mouth! I've had more than enough insubordination from you. He has six days left and he will do his duty in the field during that time. I won't have any slackers in my company. I am giving you a direct order. George is not. Repeat. Not to be placed on sick leave by you. Disobey, and I will see you court martialed! Lieutenant, do you understand me?"

I stared at this monster for a long moment.

Slacker! Fuck, I ought to shoot you now, ahead of the crowd.

Slowly, I saluted, "Yes, Sir—I understand." I turned and left.

Well Problem Solving Central, another fine mess you've gotten me into. That fucking arrogant asshole. No one, not even Leon, fought harder or more courageously than George. That fucking Fielder wants him to die here. I think the worst part is he's mad at me, more than at George. I think he'd kill all of my men just to get me dead. Damn! I can't let the fucker get away with it. That damned order was awfully fucking clear though. Shit!

Hey, Dummy! P.S.C. chimed in, It is clear. And narrow. You can't place George on sick leave. There are others who can.

Bingo! For a cut rate system, P.S.C. you do okay now and then.

I immediately headed for Doc Flores' tent.

"Doc, I need a moment. Got to talk about George with you. He's a sick man, Doc. A very sick man. I want you to put him on sick call for the next six days, to DEROS."

"Hell. George is as healthy as I am. But if you think he ain't just send him on sick call yourself."

"Can't. Direct order from 'Captain Prick' not to. Doc, I need you to do it!"

"Mickey, you are more crazy than George. I'm not going to defy a direct order, even for you." Doc fumed.

"That's the beauty of it," I grinned. "The order, the direct order, directly forbids only me from placing George on sick leave. Only me. Not you." I paused, "And Doc, George is sick. Very, very sick. He's lost it. He will get himself and probably someone else killed if he stays in the boonies."

"Damn, Mickey, I don't know." Doc waffled.

"Doc, even Fielder ain't crazy enough to challenge the company medic on whether a man is sick or not. Shit! The men would frag his ass in a New York minute. You know that. Besides...."

"Besides what, Mickey?"

"Why Doc, George is sick. Really, really. Verrry sick."

Doc cracked up. Then he did his part.

I hoped to gain a couple of days grace by Fielder simply not paying attention. I did not fear the coming confrontation, but the later it occurred the less time before George got on that Freedom Bird. Like the song says, "If not for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all." Fielder detected George's absence as we returned from a long, hot, boring hike through the Michelin. He summoned me imperiously.

"Lieutenant, get your sorry ass over here! I can't believe you are so stupid."

"Sir, what are you babbling about?" I inquired as sweetly as I could.

"Where the hell is George? Don't tell me he's on sick call."

"Sorry, Sir, that is exactly where he is."

"That cuts it! Consider yourself under arrest!" Fielder screamed. "You've disobeyed a direct order. I've got your ass now."

"Sir, I don't think so. I've disobeyed no orders, direct or otherwise. I didn't place George on sick call."

"What? You didn't—then who the fuck did?"

"The medic, Sir." I gave him a soft smile.

"You had your medic do it? That won't save you. You can't order your medic to do it and think that doesn't violate my order."

"Not my medic," I gave a huge smile. "Yours. The company medic."

Fielder nearly snapped his neck swiveling his head to find Doc. "Flores!" He screamed. "Did you place George on sick call?'

To his everlasting credit, Doc milked the moment for all it was worth. He strolled several steps closer to the Captain, paused, and calmly said, "Why, Sir—Yes, Sir, I believe I did."

"In God's name why?" Fielder sputtered.

"Why Captain, don't you know? George is sick. Very, very sick." Doc smirked.

Fielder simply stood, staring at Doc. His facial muscles danced as his anger struggled with the foolhardiness of challenging a company medic on his diagnosis. He knew full well what that could cost him. Finally, he pivoted and walked away.

Wow! Chalk one up for the good guys. What a performance by Doc. But—we keep following this trail and I see a for real shoot out with 'Captain Prick'. Ah well, I'll take him out if he makes me. What the hell can they do to me? Send me to 'Nam?

Five days later George mounted his Freedom Bird and went home.

****

Chapter 9 ~ Frolics for the Fourth

We had spent five days alternating between road clearing operations for the new PX and perimeter duty. The road clearing had been hot, dusty, and uneventful, unlike the perimeter duty, which wasn't particularly dusty. Fourth of July morning arrived with boo koo pleasant news. The PX was to be officially opened at 1000 hours. To ensure customers and good will our whole company was given the day and night off.

The PX ceremonies went off right on U.S. Army schedule at 1047 hours. The General made a few comments regarding the great concern the Brass had for the men. Then he entered the PX and made the first purchase. A born shopper, he completed his purchase in just under an hour. Shortly before noon the doors were opened for the lower classes. We mobbed the place. I looked at the cameras, thinking it would be nice to get a good 35MM Nikon or Canon camera at PX prices. Then I realized I would have to carry it and decided it could wait. I settled for a large bag of M&M Peanuts.

I headed for the beer garden for lunch with Leon, Fat Michael and Sergeant Mark Stringer, our temporary replacement for Gilvey, who was on R& R in Aussie land. The plan was to chow down burgers and fries and scope out the platoon's immediate future.

Stringer, a lanky lad of 6' 3" and 185 lbs, seemed relaxed and confident in his first Combat Platoon Sergeant position. Of course, he hadn't yet seen combat with us.

"Hey, Mickey, want ketchup for those fries?" Stringer asked.

"Barbaric! Absolutely barbaric!" I smiled, "Thank you, but we are civilized here. It has to be that California upbringing, Stringer. I've heard you people do all sorts of weird things down there in the L.A. Badlands."

"Weird? Nah, Mickey, the word is groovy. Yeah! Groovy and mellow."

"Groovy and mellow is good, but Charlie is rarely in the mood to lay back and groove. In fact, messing with your mellow is his prime addiction. Keep that in mind, Sarge."

"Good advice, Mickey." Stringer agreed. "I think we can focus on screwing Charlie's mellow."

I raised my Budweiser, "To screwing Charlie's mellow!"

Arms raised to join mine. Shouts of "Right on!" "Amen!" and "Give 'em hell!" echoed around the table and we chugged the beers.

As the laughter died down, I turned to Leon. "You're getting very short, man. What are we facing in turnover for the platoon in the near future?"

'Damn, Mickey! I'm so short sunlight takes five minutes longer to reach me than to reach you!" Leon shook his head, "There's three of us with a July 21 DEROS. Me, Coyote and Barnes in second squad. After that, I think you've got at least five more in the next month."

"Ouch. I didn't realize I'd lose both you and Coyote at the same time." I paused. "Leon, Michael, give me your assessments on leadership talent available in the platoon, and point, and whatever else you think I should know about."

"Two of my new guys, Zimmer and Butler have shown good attitude and some smarts," Fat Michael offered. "Zimmer, in particular, might make a squad leader but he needs more experience than he's likely to get in a few weeks."

"You think the other guys will accept him, Michael? He's practically a FNG."

"True. But yeah, I think they would adapt to him pretty quick."

"Sounds good. Let's keep an eye on him and give him some opportunities to lead. See how he handles them. What about Butler?"

"Hercules? The son of a bitch has enough muscles for three guys. He..."

"Hey Michael!" Leon interjected, "maybe you should trade him some fat for muscle and you'd both look better!"

The laughter, deep, real and extended, engulfed everyone, including Michael. After a few minutes and some comments from Michael about Leon not getting any more of his mother's cookies, a semblance of order returned.

"Michael, you were saying?"

"Yeah, Mickey, Hercules has shown some fast reflexes and pays careful attention to what's going down. Quick learner. Might make a good point man."

"Okay. He draws point on the next sweep. Let's have Coyote take drag and keep an eye on him."

"Leon, any thoughts?"

"Nah, Mickey. Moyer is the best guy I've got, but I wouldn't take him off the sixty. He's the grim reaper when he lights that baby up. I don't think he'd want to give it up either. Maybe Jesse or Wolfe. Nah, scratch that on Wolfe. Too hotheaded and not really sharp. Maybe Jesse."

I sighed. "Okay guys. Appreciate your thoughts. My problem is the candidates are not the same caliber as the ones they will replace. But, hey, who said 'Nam was perfect? Anyone want some M&M Peanuts?"

I threw the bag of candy on the table. It disappeared quickly. The good stuff doesn't hang around, I thought. Much like the good people. Oh well, I can get another bag of candy. How in hell do I replace people?

I quaffed one more beer, made my excuses, and headed for the showers. Literally, the showers being a favorite place of mine. A long, two hour, shower, a casual stroll back to the PX for another bag of candy, and an afternoon reading and munching in the shade. Sounds like a plan.

The shower actually went a little longer than two hours. Cool water continuously flowed over my body as I rotated positions, the first hour just to carry away the worst of the grimy red dust of 'Nam, the second to wallow in one of nature's great wonders, cool clear water. Somebody should write a song about that.

I wanted to continue in this luxury and I knew the dust would be back within the first few hundred yards, but finally, the urge to munch M&Ms and read won the day. I toweled off, dressed, and headed for the PX.

I strolled through the double doors into the air conditioned interior of the building. I stopped. I stared. Armageddon! I blinked to be sure. Man! Ten days of convoys to stock this place and totally stripped bare shelves in under four hours. Had to be a record.

I searched the remaining goodies, damn few, and found a bag of Oreos, slightly beat up, but manageable. I made my purchase and exited through the double doors headed for the company area.

Fifty meters! Another damn fifty meters and I would have been free!

"Hey, Mickey! Hold up a minute. I need to talk with you."

The speaker, Lt. Landon, my OC classmate, who worked in Battalion Ops. However, his tone of voice did not hold the promise of good things. I should have run down the road screaming. Like a condemned man, I stopped.

"Mickey, we've had an all points out to find you," Landon said, "Your platoon has 'bush tonight. They want you at Battalion to be briefed."

"No! No fucking way! We have stand down all day and night." I shuddered. "Tell me you're joking, man! There is no way this can come down. It is utter bullshit!"

"Hey! Don't kill the messenger. I'm just telling you to hike over to Ops and find out what they want from you."

"Christ! My whole damn platoon has a hell of a start on being falling down drunk by now. If I could get them together, they'd be about as useful as fucking Marvin the ARVN. This sucks the big one. Thanks a bunch, man. I'll be sure to remember you at Christmas." I grinned to take the bite out. It wasn't Landon I was mad at.

I turned and headed for Battalion Ops. I entered Ops, even angrier, but marginally more under control than when the original message was delivered.

"Sergeant," I yelled at the first poor unfortunate to come into range, "What is this crap about Delta, Second Platoon having an ambush tonight? This has to be a major screw up. My guys are all on stand down. What's going on?"

"Yes, Sir, 'fraid it's true. You guys drew short straw." The Sergeant risked a smile, looked at my face, closed his expression down and continued, "The Colonel decided we should put out at least one 'bush tonight, lest Charlie get the wrong idea about holidays. Captain Fielder volunteered your platoon. We've been looking for you since around 1300 hours."

Fielder! You are going to die now. You mother fucker. I don't know how or when, but by my hand for sure, if there is a God and He is just.

Problem Solving Central kicked in Justice and vengeance need to wait. You have a disaster brewing here. Get on it! Take care of your people.

"Sergeant, two questions. First, what if I can't get all of my platoon together? Can we contact the Colonel and get this dance cancelled?"

"Doubtful, Sir, the Colonel asked that of Captain Fielder, who said you'd do the job if you had as few as ten men."

"Wonderful! Fucking wonderful! I'll have to remember to properly thank my company commander for his confidence in me and my men." Very properly!

"Next question. Where did they locate the dance floor? Five klicks out I bet!"

"Why no, Sir" the Sergeant grinned. "It's actually one of the closest ambush sites we've ever used. Captain Fielder helped pick it out. Let me show you on the Big Map."

We walked over to the Ops map that supposedly covered all the Battalion's operational area and did cover most of the wall. The sergeant pointed to an area about 900 meters east/southeast of Quon Loi. "Right here, Sir. Less than a klick from the wire."

"Sergeant," I moaned. "Been here very long? 850 of those 900 meters is through young bamboo. That distance in that terrain is four hours if everybody is sober. Shit!" I glanced at the map. "Damn. It's almost three klicks from the front gate. Sergeant, give me a pencil and some paper to take some notes. While I do that, get me the fire support coordinates—and if you value living, don't tell me I don't have any."

My key note on the terrain was a large clearing which separated the edge of the young bamboo from the jungle area. I could set my compass line and deliberately veer a little bit to the left. When we hit the clearing, we could follow it to its eastern edge and be within a hundred meters of the ambush site. That should work and it was a better plan than trusting the maps.

I wrote down the fire support coordinates, and headed for the beer garden to round up what troops I could. It was 1630 hours. I reached the three foot wall surrounding the table area and scanned the crowd. I spotted Fat Michael, Doc, and Wolfe. I hopped over the fence and moved to their table.

"Hey, Mickeee!" Michael's slurred greeting indicated significant imbibing had already taken place. No surprise there. The others had obviously kept up.

"Gentlemen, I trust you're anesthetized sufficiently that you will find the humor in what I am about to say. Second has just been pulled for a platoon 'bush. Tonight! The site is a three klick hike. We will be going out the gate at 1800 hours. Finish your beers, hike back to the company area, get some chow in you, get your gear and assemble at 1750 hours. That's less than an hour and a half, so get a move on."

"Say what?" Wolfe spoke first.

"But, Mickeee?" Michael followed. Doc just stared.

"No time for long explanations. We got screwed and we got the job. Move out and get ready. Michael, do you know where any others from the platoon are located?"

Suddenly sober, Michael responded, "Leon, Coyote, and a couple of others went to find some fun with the ladies. Might be a few at the PX, but we heard that's already wasted. Don't know otherwise, Mickey."

"Rumors about the PX are true, but swing by on your way to the company area and check anyway, Michael. If Leon is chasing booty, I won't stand a chance of catching up to him. Damn!"

Damn is right! Your point man and best player would have been good to have. But you don't, so keep it moving and find what you can.

Ever helpful P.S.C. was, as usual, correct. Unfair! Damn unfair! "Michael, you and Doc sweep through the tables on this side and Wolfe and I will check the other side.

Hit the PX on the way back, and try to get the guys organized. I'll join you as quickly as I can. Let's hit it!"

Wolfe and I found two more platoon members. Michael and Doc hit the jackpot with six. A dozen total so far, even if two were having major problems remaining erect. I sent them all back to the company area and headed for the barracks to check for more. I roused two sleeping lambs and sent them off to join the others. Both had been drinking but were able to stand, more or less.

I continued the search through other company areas and worked around to the PX. I found Weiler very drunk and unhappy with the devastated PX shelves. I rounded him up and we didi-maued back to the company area.

Michael had done well and found three more guys. A total of eighteen and maybe three of us close to sober. This is going to be a real butt fuck!

Working together, Michael and I got them fed, their gear on and lined up. I walked down the line checking everyone's gear, ammunition load, and basic sobriety. Most of the gear was okay. I had Michael round up extra magazines and a half dozen claymore mines. We were ready to go.

"Platoon! Attention!—Right shoulder Arms!—Right Face!—Forward March!" I moved the platoon down the road to the gate. We had marched twenty meters, "Platoon Halt!—Left Face, Order Arms, At Ease." I smiled ear to ear at the approaching scarecrow form, "Why Sergeant Stringer! Fortunate Man, you're just in time to join our little outing."

The scarecrow, his shirt flapping in the breeze, his face reddened by the beer and the heat, wobbled a bit and responded astutely, "Say what?"

"We drew ambush and will be on our way out the gate in the next ten minutes. Grab your gear quickly, fall in line, and welcome to the party."

Stringer wobbled and stared. His gaze worked back and forth on the line of soldiers and returned to fix on me. "Mickey?" he rasped.

"It's for real, Sarge. Get your gear and hustle. Time's a wasting."

Stringer trotted over to his tent, grabbed his gear and was back within two minutes, although he was still putting on his webbing as we marched to the gate. I called a halt and set the platoon at ease.

"All right! Everyone listen very carefully. We have a three klick hike to the ambush site and just over three hours to get there. Most of you are drunk, so we have a problem. I will take both point and compass. Michael, I want you in the middle, Stringer, bring up the rear. Until we get to the site you are to remember two things. Follow the man in front of you and keep quiet. Michael and Stringer come with me for a moment. Rest easy. We'll be under way in two minutes."

I walked a few feet away and waited for them. "Guys, you have to keep the gaps in the line to a minimum and make absolutely sure we lose no sheep. Any questions?"

Michael spoke. "What if we need flankers?"

"Good question. I don't think the terrain will necessitate that, but if it does we'll see who's sober enough to not get lost. Let's do it!"

We exited the gate at 1812 hours. We moved a hundred meters down the road. I paused, took a compass reading and boldly led my men into the jungle. I tried to do it boldly so no one could tell I was about to crap my pants over what we were doing.

I was in major overload. Point man is the second most dangerous occupation in 'Nam, behind only tunnel rat. It required one hundred percent of a man's attention and then some. Compass was responsible not only for direction but also for tracking the distance covered and monitoring the trees overhead for possible snipers. This was not easy in flat terrain where you could count paces. In the jungle it was almost a laughable exercise. As Platoon Leader, I still had responsibility for every other action by the platoon. All of this, and most of the men seriously drunk, did not scope out to be a fun evening. It would be topped off by night on ambush with a totally undermanned group.

I can't believe this. Here I am in the midst of a totally insane butt fuck, which has a high probability of getting nineteen men killed, and I feel fantastic. I mean this is beyond an adrenaline rush. This is insanity – pure and simple. Neat!

I feel like a young god of war. Fucking invincible! The strange thing is I don't know whether to embrace or fight this feeling. Will either serve better to accomplish the mission and bring all of these men home safe?

PSC broke in, Embrace it; at least the energy helps.

We covered the first five hundred meters without incident. I called a halt while I checked the compass and my map. One click on 160 degrees should pull us around the

base. From there about eight hundred meters on an 85 degree heading should let us hit the clearing and use it to find our ambush site. Path finding was never my strong point, but my calculations appeared okay.

A quick check on the men revealed I had not underestimated the amount of beer that had been consumed. Red faces, queasy stomachs, and pity me faces abounded. We moved out.

Another five hundred meters and I gave the men a five minute break. I re-checked my calculations. They seemed on target. We resumed course.

We'd covered three hundred meters more when alarms went off in my head and I dropped the platoon in place ready to rumble. My senses had stayed hyper for almost two hours and I wasn't sure why I'd triggered.

Sound! I'd heard something that did not belong. C'mon brain! What did I hear? P.S.C. seemed to have only two speeds – slow and a speed designed to make slow look like "Bullet" Bob Hayes. It was not using the fast processor now. Several sounds, metal on metal, water sloshing in a canteen, a slight cough. Okay, great. Now from where? How close? What direction?

I passed the word. "Sounds of men traveling. Somewhere ahead of us. Not real close. Direction of travel unknown. Stay in place. We'll wait, see if they come this way."

Eternity sat in for a hand of cards, and time stretched unbearably. Everyone used all senses, straining to detect the enemy first. Being first usually increased one's survival odds, a paramount concern at the moment. At the end of the year, when ten minutes had passed without any more signs of Charlie's presence. I got everyone up and moved forward slowly at combat ready.

We covered a hundred meters using a variation of a British style of jungle step. First step, pause two seconds, second step, pause two seconds, third step, stop, check 180 degrees around and overhead. Repeat. Extremely slow, but very effective at not walking into ambushes.

At a hundred meters we had not encountered one additional piece of evidence that Charlie was near and waiting for us. The noise maker I had heard appeared to be moving away from us, probably towards Quon Loi. Their lack of awareness of our presence was encouraging.

We resumed march and covered the last hundred meters to our turning point in good time. I adjusted course for the last leg of the march, another 800 meters.

Ninety minutes of fairly fast march later, I wondered if my distance estimate was faulty. I thought we'd covered 850 meters and the clearing should be near. The jungle seemed to answer in belligerent tones, "I've got plenty of underbrush and tangle for you to go through before any clearing."

Great! Now the fucking jungle wants to argue. I wouldn't mind so much but I have an ambush to get to on time. Wait! There it is.

I halted the column, moved forward, and checked it out. Twenty meters forward the clearing stood quietly in the late daylight. A quick check revealed less than two hundred meters to its edge and a hundred meters from there to the ambush site. I returned to the men with the good news. A few actually seemed sober enough to appreciate it.

We made our final turn and moved quickly to the edge of the clearing. Fifty meters later I called a halt. I wanted to use up all of the daylight and move into the actual ambush site just as night fell to give us the best chance of setting up undetected. I placed the men in a defensive perimeter, while I moved closer to the site to check it out.

It was not too bad for a small team ambush. I decided on a straight line setup with everyone strung between two small trees and oriented towards what appeared to be a trail about thirty meters out. A two man listening post to our rear would provide some protection against Charlie walking up on us from behind. Half the claymores would be set about fifteen meters from the trail the rest five meters closer in with some on the sides and rear. It seemed a workable plan. I headed back to the platoon. A cool breeze made my mood more upbeat.

I passed instructions on the ambush as soon as I returned. I put Michael in charge of the claymores and Stringer in charge of setting up the listening post but not manning it. We still had about twenty minutes to rest.

Stringer was sitting with his back to a tree, next to a man made hole some two feet by six in diameter and two feet deep. There were perhaps twenty such holes in the immediate area. I sat on a small log ten feet from him. "So what do you think, Sarge?"

"I'd say you did a hell of a job getting a bunch of drunks out here, Mickey. What the fuck is the Brass thinking?"

"Brass—Thinking?" I chortled. "Now there is an oxymoron if ever I heard one. They were probably deep thinking as much as the idiots who dug these holes. What the hell do you suppose they are meant for? Shallow graves?"

"Maybe very shallow fox holes. They are damn sure curious." Stringer allowed. "But I don't see anything to worry about with them."

'Yeah! I've had enough to worry about in recent moments."

"Well hey, Mickey!'' Stringer smiled. "At least it ain't raining."

By the pagan gods of the woods, by the sword of St. George, by all that is holy, I swear the words were not out of his mouth when the mild cooling breeze kicked up to fifty miles per hour and threw all the dust, loose vegetation, and everything else, against us like a thousand sharp, minute darts. Over the next two minutes, the wind gained another twenty miles per hour and threw monsoon rains at a right angle sideways against us. All we could do was turn our backs and huddle. There was no place to run or hide.

Apparently the gods were just funning with us and not seeking to destroy us completely. Five minutes it raged and stopped as abruptly as it had started. The holes were all filled to the brim. Stringer sat, crumpled against the tree he'd been hugging. He gave me an open mouthed stare; clearly incapable of speech.

I stared back. "You—just—had to—open—your—fucking mouth! Didn't you?"

He whimpered, stared at me, started, "Mickey...." Shook his head, "I..." gasped for breath, "Guilty as charged, Sir." We both completely cracked up.

Few things are more purging than maniacal laughter in the middle of total insanity. It worked for us.

I grabbed Stringer's arm to help him up. Let's get it set up fast. It's already darker than the original plan filed with the Brass. They'll be hollering any minute now. As we moved into the site, I radioed Battalion that we were on-site and setting up. Ten minutes later we settled in for what I fervently prayed would be a totally quiet night.

At midnight, word passed up the line there were sounds of men traveling to our left. Maybe a hundred meters out and no clues on numbers or directions. Quietly, I made sure everyone was awake and alert. We lay there and listened intently. Twice, I heard metal on metal, and once, a spoken word in Vietnamese. Nothing came very close to us and Charlie, or his ghosts, passed on after a tense half hour.

The knowledge of enemy presence in the immediate area is a stimulant far superior to hot Waffle House coffee. No one slept over the next two hours.

"Mickey, Midnight Six is on the line," Weiler spoke quietly. "Wants to talk to you about a change in plans."

"Sounds fucking great." I took the handset, "Six this is your Six, what's up?"

"Six, we've had a change in some plans here, and your company is scheduled on an eagle flight at 0630. We need you in here, so we want you to pull up your ambush and bring your people in now."

"Midnight that's totally insane!" I struggled to keep my voice down. " I've got only nineteen men, we've had significant activity around us in the last two hours. Clearly we've got more of Charlie than us out here. Pulling ambush now is asking to get wasted! You can't be serious!"

"Lieutenant, I'm extremely serious. We know there is some danger, but you need to be with your company in time for the eagle flight. We'll surround you with artillery support all the way in. You'll be fine."

"No, Sir, I won't do it. If you want us in, then send some personnel carriers to pick us up. I'm not going to play Russian Roulette with my men!"

"Lieutenant, you don't seem to understand. The decision has already been made. You are to pick up your ambush and return to the base camp. You are to begin that process now. We'll cover you with artillery. You and your men will be fine."

"I don't like your artillery coverage when I'm not moving. Trying to find a path home in the dark with your yo-yo's firing coverage. Talk about three blind mice," I sneered. "I'm not interested in getting my platoon's tail trimmed."

"This is not an item for debate, Lieutenant. I want you to start moving on it, and I mean now!"

I handed the handset back to Weiler, "Gee—seems like all of the radios just went dead. Strange they should all go at once, but I bet they won't function again until we get ready to pull up the ambush at daylight. What do you think?"

Weiler turned the Prick 25 off. "Strange indeed, Mickey, but it will save our batteries. I assume no radios unless we have contact?"

"Correct. Pass the word. Emphasis on staying alert so we can all live to see the sunrise."

I settled in for the rest of the night determined to follow my own orders to stay alert. My mind drifted from visions of providing Midnight a blooper suppository to derisive thoughts about my future military career. Concern for the safety of my men in this bizarre situation kept me from sleep and from dwelling too hard on other visions.

The night passed. Pre-dawn light found everyone alert and prepared for this most dangerous moment. Slowly, dawn blossomed fully, bringing relative safety to pull up the ambush and head for home. Charlie don't hang around in the sunshine. I gave the orders to bring in the claymores and saddle up. I picked up the radio handset, flipped the radio on switch and called Midnight.

My third call brought a response, and I sailed into my performance, "What the hell is going on here! I've been calling you guys every fifteen minutes since 0230 and you've been ignoring me. It's goddam lonely out here when you assholes won't talk to us."

"What! The hell you say! We've been trying to raise you all night. You're in deep shit for not monitoring and responding."

"Hey! Lighten up! I just told you we've been trying to reach you, and you say that you've been trying to reach us. Maybe we got one of those radio dead spots between us. In any case, it don't mean nothin' now. We've pulled the ambush and are on our way back to the base. We'll take a direct route in, and if we don't run into anything, our estimated time of arrival at the front gate is 0915 about ninety minutes from now.

A direct straight line route in the jungles of Vietnam, pursued for any significant distance, can be very hazardous. Charlie can move in front of you and set up a quick ambush of opportunity that will definitely ruin your day. Under other circumstances, I would've used at least two changes of direction to keep Charlie guessing. Angry and in a hurry to get in to base, I was also aware that I had significantly pushed the chain of command envelope and needed a good faith effort to rejoin my company as promptly as possible. We moved on a straight line.

In addition to straight, I decided to move fast. If Charlie did spot us we might be able to move past him before he could set an ambush. We forged ahead at half again what our normal speed would have been. I felt every hurried step as if descending another step down into hell, but I saw little alternative.

An hour at this pace brought us to a point where we had to adjust our course or pass through terrain that would slow us badly and eliminate any chance of making camp in good time. A minute to check the map and compass and a brief consult with Sergeant Stringer and we moved out on the new heading at the same high speed.

Five minutes later the point called a halt and passed a message back. "Mickey, we've got what appears to be a large bomb sticking nose first in the mud directly in our path. What do you want us to do?"

"Turn ninety degrees right move fifty meters, turn ninety degrees left move past it and then return to the current route. Bypass the damn thing, but slow to normal pace, I want to come up and take a look at it."

Moments later I was taking a closer than comfortable look at what appeared to be a five hundred pound piece of unexploded ordnance. Some bombs blow up on their own schedule. I sincerely hoped this one was not scheduled for this morning. I called it in.

"Black Lion One this is Delta Mickey Six." Battalion Ops responded, and I continued. "We have found what appears to be unexploded ordnance. Thought you might like the coordinates."

"Six can you bring it in, and do you have any idea how it got there?"

"Negative! Very negative on bringing it in! I'm not bomb squad qualified, and it's a fucking five-hundred-pounder. I imagine somebody accidentally dropped it in the wrong place. Either that or the Easter Bunny came early this year. You want the coordinates or not?"

After a long pause, "Roger. Give us the coordinates."

I did. "We're about thirty minutes from the gate. What are our orders when we get in?"

Another long pause, "Take your men to the company area, get them fed, get their gear loaded and move them to the airstrip as quickly as possible. You were scheduled for an 0630 Eagle Flight, but, lucky for you, that's been delayed."

"Yeah! I'm a lucky rabbit's foot these days for sure. Roger, feed 'em, load 'em, and move 'em to the air strip. Got you. Out."

We moved through the front gate at 0910. The men were fed, loaded up, and we made the airstrip by 0955. I immediately headed for the Captain. Best to get the day's inevitable unpleasantness over as soon as possible.

"Captain, Second Platoon has been re-assembled and everyone is present and accounted for. We're ready to go. Have you any directions on our assignment."

"Lieutenant, you are in soooo much trouble." His voice lingered with delight on the 'so'. "We were supposed to be loading on an Eagle Flight at 0630. You not only were absent from your directed assignment, you clearly made a deliberate decision to ignore orders, leaving this company short handed. This is inexcusable. I will see you court martialled over it." He licked his chops.

I smiled like the cat with the mouse in his paws, knowing that would irritate him. "Captain, I guess it's lucky for me that the choppers are late. We're here now, and when they show, I will be at my proper post. The rest is simply large amounts of water buffalo doo doo. The last orders I received were to take a truly undermanned, bunch of drunks on ambush. Thank you personally very much for that. I followed those orders. End of story."

"You were ordered to bring those men in last night! You aren't getting away with this one!" The Captain's face was a bright red, nearly matching his hair. I enjoyed that.

"Au contraire, Sir. There was some discussion of doing that, but no order was received prior to the radio failure we experienced. I received no order!"

Apoplexy can be quite interesting to observe. The Captain had a nice bout of it. He knew I was right at the edge of disobeying a direct order. Although he hated to admit it, he also knew it was not provable I had received the order. Finally, he said "We'll see about that! We'll just see! Get back to your platoon and stay there."

I complied.

I ran a check of the men to be sure they were ready for a combat jump-off, settled them in what little shade was available on the tarmac, and sat down at their edge. I placed myself deliberately between them and the command group. I sat staring at the Captain, attempting to send the most lethal messages possible through the ether directly from my mind to his. I don't know if it worked but it made me feel better, and he seemed rather uncomfortable in my view.

We sat.

No Choppers. At 1030 hours I called for water re-supply. The temperature was 115 degrees on the tarmac. Water was actually brought rather quickly. I think the Captain must have been very thirsty.

Still no Choppers. At 1210 hours we were informed lunch would be brought out in a half hour and served next to the command building. They served lunch at 0115, right on time—Army Time. I learned from John Hall that our assignment was to operate out of Thunder Six on Highway One. The Thunders were heavily fortified NDPs, intended to provide security for the highway. We would run mostly day time search operations and platoon sized ambushes.

No damn choppers. Water was provided again at 0250. The temperature on the tarmac was 121 degrees. My internal temperature rivaled some areas of Hades.

This is not piss poor prior planning by the wonderful masterminds of Uncle Sam's Army. This is punishment! Pure and simple. All of these men are sitting here ready to die from heat exhaustion because of me. That fucking asshole wants me dead so bad, he's willing to kill the whole fucking company to get me. Fuck it! I'm gonna go over there and waste him! Let's get it over!

Problem Solving Central chimed in, Stop with the paranoia. He is out to get you but not at the price of wasting the company. That would make him look bad. Let it be for now.

But—

Forget it! Too damn hot anyway. Kill him later.

1530. Fifteen fucking thirty hours in the fucking afternoon! Choppers, we're out of here.

****

Chapter 10 ~ Thunder Six

From six thousand feet in the air, Thunder Six revealed itself as further from Highway 13 than I expected. It sat a half mile from the road on a hilltop. Pear shaped to accommodate the terrain, it was outlined in barbed wire, with reinforced, covered bunkers set in place. Each bunker had multiple wires running to claymore mines and in a few cases to flue gas – fifty-five gallon drums of napalm half buried and aimed to inundate large sections of the hillside in a "Welcome-to-my-little-corner-of-Hell" blazing inferno if required for defense. All of this was supported by an eight inch howitzer battery in the center. The top of the pear housed the main entrance. To it's immediate north lay a short concrete runway adequate for small spotter planes and helicopters.

For a hundred meters around the entrance, the local, indigenous personnel – the Vietnamese from the village a half mile up the road – held an open market, selling everything from Pepsi to porn.

Our choppers settled in on the runway, and we exited to the edge of the concrete. The choppers lifted off for their next assignment. We formed up and marched to the entrance of the Thunder. The Vietnamese, excited to see new customers, shouted in pidgin English and Vietnamese and waved their goods at us. I noticed one young girl in particular. She appeared to be about ten years old and, I guessed, of Cambodian and French extraction. She was absolutely lovely and clearly would grow to be a beautiful woman if she survived the war. Most striking, however, was her sales approach. She simply talked at five times the speed of any human being I had ever heard anywhere. It went something like, "Hey Numbah One GI – You look at my table – You like all my stuff – Numbah One boom boom best – You like for sure – C'mon GI – My stuff best Numbah One for sure – I tell you truth for sure – You be Numbah One GI – Buy from me for sure."

All of this presented with the most engaging smile and winsome attitude. I was sorely tempted to linger, as were we all, but the Captain kept us moving into the Thunder. Second was assigned the North Side perimeter. I had barely enough men to cover the sector and decided to leave three bunkers unmanned and move their claymore wires to other bunkers. As soon as we were set, I moved up to the command post and reported my actions. First and Third had the same story. Fourth Platoon, with us on this trip, continued setting up mortars in the Thunder interior. We all knew there'd be no reinforcements from the hallowed Fourth for our platoons, no matter how thinly stretched we were.

Captain Fielder shook his head at the news. "Damn! We'll have to make do. Mostly platoon patrols and one platoon ambush per night. That will stretch us even thinner for perimeter coverage. First Platoon draws patrol tomorrow. Second picks up ambush. We'll follow a simple rotation. Questions?"

"Yes, Sir." Kelly spoke. "What is the deal on all these gooks at the gate?"

"They're from the neighboring friendly village" Fielder stated the obvious. "During the day your men can be at the gate, but keep it to a few at a time. The gooks fold up shop and head for home prior to darkness. I don't like it. They could spot any weaknesses we have in our defense."

Wow! What a piece of deduction! Sherlock Holmes, himself would be amazed. And what are we going to do about this?

On cue, Fielder responded to my thoughts. "I don't guess there is much we can do about it. Make sure your people stay alert. Dismissed."

I passed the news on to Gilvey and the squad leaders, gave permission to allow four men at a time to check out the market at the gate, and went to my command bunker to rest and think through what was coming.

Weiler waited for me. "Hell of a location, huh, Mickey? Did you scope out that fast talking little Yvette?"

"Yvette? Is that her name?"

"Yeah, French father. Her parents were killed. She was taken in by the family housekeeper who moved back to the ville'. Kind of a sad story. They're raising her, but she is considered second class. They expect her to produce in the market and the expectation is that in a year or two they will sell her to one of the Saigon whorehouses. Hard to believe isn't it? Here all of the Vietnamese are second class citizens in the world, at best, and they can still find it in themselves to abuse others. 'Nam really sucks!"

"Sucks the big one for sure! You are an amazing source of information. You learned all of that while I was with the Captain?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Did you also learn the locations of the flue gas in relation to our bunker, or did gathering the local gossip keep you too busy?"

"Nah, Mickey. You know me. Business first. We've got three of the big blasters in our section of the perimeter. Two are hooked to blow from our position and one from Stringer's down and to the right. The first is down to the left." He pointed. "It looks like it will blow almost to the runway and cover a good deal of area towards the gate. The second is straight ahead and should cover another third of our area. Stringer's will cover most of the rest of our assigned sector. It looks pretty good."

"Okay, answer me this. If you had to crawl up to the top of this hill and avoid being roasted. Could you make it through our sector?'

"Well, not too easily." Weiler hesitated. "But there are at least three gullies that would get you close before you had problems. And uhmm...."

"Uhhm what? C'mon, give."

"Well Mickey, forget taking this place coming up the hill. I'd just come in through the front gate if I was Charlie. We have no defenses covering that area."

I paused, mentally reviewing the area around the entrance. "Jesus Christ! You are fucking absolutely right! Damn!"

Hello! P.S.C. any ideas, thoughts, suggestions, jokes? Now would be a nice time.

Okay, okay. Why are you always in a rush? Take care of what you can in your sector, advise the Captain of the concerns with the front entrance, and sleep with one eye canted towards the entrance.

Doggone. Good ideas without sarcasm. I could get used to that!

"Weiler, get Gilvey, Leon and Michael up here. We'll see what can be done about our sector. I'll speak with the Captain about the front gate. Good observations, by the way. Keep it up."

We decided a few extra claymores could handle most of our concerns. I decided to check out the defensive posture of the front gate area before approaching the Captain. An expert, first hand appraisal would certainly be the least I could—Oh all right! I wanted to see Yvette again. I searched my pack for any leftover c-rats, found two cans of peaches and a can of alleged peanut butter and headed for the gate.

She was huckstering a GI from Third Platoon into buying a wristwatch.

"Hey GI! Numbah one watch Sayko Best in world – Work forever Numbah One GI need Numbah One watch – Dial shines at night Always know time Very cheap for Numbah One GI – You buy you Numbah one smart you buy!"

The watch had a genuine Seiko cover and guaranteed non-genuine Seiko internal workings. With luck, if kept dry it would work just fine for as long as—Oh, two weeks. Dampness would reduce that to a day or two. I knew this from first hand experience.

The GI in question, charmed, stupid, or both, completed his purchase, buying the alleged watch for around ten dollars. I felt good. I had only paid seven for mine.

I stepped to her table and surveyed the merchandise. A small green necklace of Buddha caught my attention. Many Vietnamese were Buddhist, and it was not uncommon to have ARVN and VC soldiers go into battle with a necklace of this size, holding the statue itself in their mouth. This was supposed to provide protection. I had even seen Crazy George with the chain hanging from his mouth during a firefight. I had also seen too many dead bodies with that chain in their mouths to personally believe in its efficacy.

"You trade for Cs?" I asked. I pointed at the necklace.

"LT, Numbah One Trade for good Cs – Buddha genwhine jade Numbah One you see – What Cs you trade?"

"Just the best, darling." I handed her the peanut butter (alleged).

Her outrage was genuine and awesome to behold. "You no Numbah One LT, you Numbah Ten Very bad Rotten – You crazy American You think I trade for these Cs – You go away Bad GI Numbah Ten!"

She flipped the offending can back to me with all-encompassing derision on that beautiful face.

I grinned. "Oh, so sorry. Not that can of Cs. These two." I proffered the peaches.

Her face and attitude changed so abruptly when she saw the peaches, I felt guilty for my little joke.

"Ah GI play joke Not very funny Numbah Ten joke – But GI Numbah One LT, Numbah One – genwhine jade necklace more than two cans of Cs Need money too."

We dickered and the "genwhine" jade necklace was mine for the Cs and two dollars. I knew a beautiful Redhead in Georgia that the green would look good on, and she would appreciate the purchase story. I headed for the Captain's bunker.

My negotiating skills were much less successful on Fielder. He did not see an attack through a gate lined by hundreds of yards of barbwire as being very likely and "... besides we can always turn our defense and adjust."

I looked to my own defense and retreated to my platoon. I had Leon set on the end of the perimeter closest to the front gate. I made sure he was aware of the need to monitor the gate as well as the perimeter.

I headed for my bunker as daylight faded to dusk; it snapped to coal black darkness before I reached my bed. That almost caused a disaster.

I rounded the bunker, saw a flash of black pajamas by my bunk and whipped my M-16 around to bear on my target.

"GI No shoot! No VC! No shoot!"

I managed to not squeeze the trigger. Someone turned on a flashlight and I stared at a young Vietnamese girl of, perhaps, fourteen.

The flashlight went out and a voice whispered, "Mickey, just a boom boom girl for you." I stepped into the bunker picked up a flashlight and turned it on the girl. Shaking and visibly scared, she was still a not unattractive specimen. I looked at her youthful face and my mind placed Yvette's face in my vision.

"No boom boom tonight little one. Not this night!" I stepped out of the bunker. "Weiler! Weiler! Where the hell is my radio?" I thought to call the Captain and inform him of the indigenous local in our midst. A noise behind me caused me to turn and catch a glimpse of her form disappearing into the night.

"Damn! She'll get killed." I took one step. Weiler was suddenly next to me.

"It's okay, Mickey. She'll slip though that wire with no problem. She won't get hurt. Sorry you didn't like her."

"Like her? I liked her too much. She's too young, and I can't handle that. Reminds me of my sisters." I paused. "Damn it! If she can get out of that wire, Charlie can get in. Do we have a problem or what?"

"No problem, Mickey. If Charlie tries it, we'll have a barbecue."

I shuddered. "Okay, guys, enough is too much. Let's call it for the night and I don't need to hear any more about this." Of course, the jibes and snide comments on my turning down a "primo date" would go on for weeks.

Perimeter duty the next day progressed easily. Platoon members, in small groups, shopped at the market; everyone thoroughly cleaned weapons and gear in preparation for the ambush that night. Most of the men napped and rested for the evening's activities. The Vietnamese market operating steadily at the front gate, reduced real concern over a daytime attack by the local VC. That would be bad for business.

I worked on the route to our ambush site with the new maps provided by my favorite oxymoron – military intelligence. They were actually decades old French maps. The French were noted for things such as fine wine and being notably absent when the VC attacked, as well as for the poor quality of their cartography. However, they were all I had. The maps showed the runway adjacent to the Thunder, so I used the eastern end of the runway, a firmly fixed position, as a reasonable starting point for the mission. The route I calculated would take us fifteen hundred meters, roughly along and south of the road. A seventy-five degree turn to the south and another five hundred meters would take us to the trail crossing we were to ambush.

Immediately following an early supper, we set out from the edge of the runway. Within five hundred meters the inaccuracy of the maps revealed itself. The route I had laid out with such care took us north of the road and at an angle that would clearly take us even further north away from our destination. A brief consultation with Stringer resulted in moving back to the south side of the road, arbitrarily knocking ten degrees off the compass heading for declination (also known as map inaccuracies), and agreeing that Kentucky windage would be necessary to find our ambush site.

Two hundred meters further it became clear that windage would need to be more like monsoon-age. Once again, we drifted to the north side of the road. I saw two basic possibilities, the map was totally incorrect in its placement of the road and we should alter our course, or the road was in proper perspective in relation to our ambush site and we should ignore the compass headings. Not locating our assigned site would leave us exposed to arbitrary artillery interdiction fire, and conversely unable to call for fire support accurately – a situation designed to maintain blood pressure at a level to prevent any inaccurate diagnosis of being dead.

Gilvey looked at me, shook his head, and quietly spoke, "Bummer."

Michael gave a rather eloquent shrug of his shoulders.

Leon offered, "Beats me."

They all looked to me to produce a magic wand. Time to roll the dice. "Okay, the consensus is to parallel the road for another three hundred meters, make our turn and expect to find our spot between four and six hundred meters out. Is that about right?"

Grins and a chorus of "Yeah," "Right," "Sounds good," assured me that my guess was as good as anyone's under the circumstances. It was either right or wrong, so that made it fifty/fifty. Quick message to P.S.C., how's my math?

When it comes to calculating odds, you should stick to something you're good at, like dealing with the Brass. You know your odds are as good as any wild guess would give you. Shitty!

Okay, but is there, like, a better option?

No. Change your flankers and get moving. There's not much daylight left.

"Michael, who's running flank?"

"Zimmer's been out since we started."

"Okay," I said. "Bring him in and put Moore out. When we turn into the bush, Leon can put one out on the left. Let's move it out!"

I reviewed the decision as we hiked alongside the road. I found no better solutions and returned my focus to the present moment. A fleeting question breezed by as I shifted mental gears – Why change flankers? Dunno, seemed like a good idea. Pay attention boy. Time to run the show.

We reached the turning point and changed course smoothly. The sunlight was a very late in the day, not much left type twilight. It would be good if the site isn't too...

KA-WHOOM!!

The concussion from the blast knocked me back a step. I hit the ground with everybody else. Smoke and dust billowed towards us from the right and my ears rang with all the Bells of St. Mary's.

"What the hell've we got?" I yelled. "Does anyone know what the fuck that was?"

"Flank triggered a booby trap!" someone yelled.

"Oh shit! That damn explosion was no grenade. It was fucking huge!" I stated the rather obvious.

I peered through the dust and smoke trying to see, I don't know what. I knew for a certainty that the last thing I wanted was to go see the results of that explosion. Just as surely, I knew that was my job, and I couldn't duck it.

I rose to one knee and tried to get moisture into the Sahara Desert that was my throat, to direct the search. Something moved amidst the floating dust curtains hanging in the air. I instinctively shouldered my M-16, then dropped the barrel down at a sight not to be believed.

Thickly coated with dust, a short, vanilla-pale spectre (Not a green ghoul!) walked towards us on shaky legs and in a tremulous voice, sounding eerily like a spirit freshly returned from dying, said "Don't shoot! It's me! Moore!"

Then he collapsed.

We rushed to his aid. I reached him first and was reassured to see his chest rise and fall with ragged breaths. A moment more and a dozen soldiers surrounded their comrade. Order came quickly with a few sharp commands issued from my throat by an unknown source. The men set a perimeter and Doc worked on Moore.

To the Vietnamese all Americans are six and a half feet tall like Zimmer. In fact, Moore was barely five four. He had indeed tripped a booby trap. An unexploded 105 round from a past fire mission, rigged by Charlie into a half piece of bamboo as an aiming device and set to remove a GI's head. If Moore were an average six, six GI, he would now be headless.

It hit me like lightning searing through my gut—

Or if I had left Zimmer on flank, it would have decapitated him. I shivered. Why did I make that change? No! Never mind I don't ever want to know.

Doc reported that Moore was basically okay, except for his ears. All he could hear was ringing, very loud ringing. He could stay with the ambush and be sent to Charlie Med at Quon Loi for a more thorough check up in the morning.

We reorganized and moved within minutes of that report. We pushed hard but night caught us before we found the crossroads we were to ambush. I set a defensive perimeter and called the Captain. He did not care for my explanation of why we weren't on site. He reluctantly agreed to my suggestion to accurately locate our position. Shortly a flare round erupted over the ambush site. I called in an adjustment. A second flare bloomed much closer. The third adjustment had the flare immediately above us. Our position was fixed. Artillery interdiction and fire support were not further problems.

I took the radio and vowed to monitor it all night. I knew I would not sleep.

Some damn leader I am. Here I sit with the lost platoon and the only reason I don't have a dead man on my hands is because the little fucker was short. God! How ironic? What did you do in the war, Daddy? Oh I picked the shorter guys so Charlie shot over their heads. Brilliant, fucking brilliant! What next? Pick the skinny guys so the bullets would only hit their shirts. Oops, been there! Done that! Dear God, if you are there, I can't do this. Get me out of here before I get someone killed. Please.

I did nod off just before dawn and Weiler grabbed the radio to give our sitrep.

Oh! Amazing, I can't even do the poor martyr bit right!

Dawn arrived and we made good time back to the Thunder. Yvette and the other vendors greeted us with their sales pitches as we moved through the gate. Fielder called me to his bunker before we reached our sector.

"Lieutenant, I'd give you the ass chewing your pathetic map reading deserves right now, but it will have to wait. Get your men geared up for an eagle flight in thirty minutes. We need you for a search and destroy mission."

"Yes, Sir. And for the record, the maps are unreadable, but I'm sure we'll talk."

The patrol assigned to us had the attraction of serving a somewhat different purpose than usual. We landed our eagle flight two klicks from the Cambodian border and had an assigned sector to patrol. Our real purpose, along with half a dozen other units, was to provide a broad safety net for a Long Range Recon Patrol Team coming out of Cambodia at a point undetermined. Hopefully the LRRPs would be located and join up with one of the safety net patrols. Information on where they had been, what they were looking for, and why they needed this kind of link up was not provided. I wasn't stupid enough to ask. Long Range Recon, pretty much a law unto itself, was noted for three things – Insanity, being secretive about their assignments, and extreme insanity!

We tuned our radios on the LRRP channel and moved out to explore our sector. Operating this close to Cambodia increased the possibility of running into enemy detachments larger than we usually dealt with and which might be hard core NVA instead of local VC. That last didn't bother me a lot. I figured anyone shooting at me was hard core enough. However, large numbers of the enemy constituted a sincere concern.

Our sector contained a Hill 950 as its highest point. Logically a high point would make us more accessible to the LRRPs, so we set out to that destination. The day was overcast, hot but less than usual, and we had no reason to hurry in the unfamiliar terrain. I put out flankers and we slow marched our route. We reached 950 at noon. A half hour hike topped that small mountain. I set a defensive perimeter and we broke for lunch.

We had received a new generation of c-rats and my culinary curiosity felt challenged by how my shredded chicken would taste better or different than the old de-boned slop. I also looked forward to the round mint flavored chocolate bar, which was sure to be an improvement over twenty year old cheddar crackers.

My radio crackled, "Hey, American unit on top of Hill 950, this is LRRP Team Wolf 3. Acknowledge please."

I coughed on a piece of shredded chicken, grabbed the Mike and replied, "Hey yourself! This is Delta Mickey Six. Love to have you join us for lunch. Can you give your present location?"

"Negative, Delta Mickey. Request you pop smoke for ID. Let us work up to you."

"Roger, dropping smoke—now."

"ID purple, repeat purple smoke."

"That would be us. Can you provide direction of approach and estimate on time?"

"We'll be coming in from the southwest. Should hit the base of the hill in fifteen. We'll come in quick, so keep your guys loose."

"Roger, come join the party."

I watched carefully, along with everyone else. We couldn't see or hear them. Fifteen minutes passed and they appeared at the base of the hill. Twenty minutes later, I shook the hand of Staff Sergeant Walter P. Kowzlaski, "Ski" to his friends. I liked him immediately. Ski declined my offer of c-rats, but accepted fresh water from our canteens for his men. We called in the link up and received orders to move to a pick up site a klick and a half away. Another platoon already had that site secure.

"Mickey, fact is Charlie may not be too far behind us. We need to get our report in to HQ. I'd like to move soonest."

"Roger, Ski. Underway in five." I grinned, "Four GIs and one Vietnamese, isn't that a slightly unusual combination for a LRRP Team?"

"Oh! You mean our boy Kim? I'll tell you what, in addition to knowing the language and the country he's got two other things going for him."

"They would be?"

"He is an extraordinary small arms weapons expert. You name it he can tell you its fire power, shooting characteristics, mechanical tendencies, etc. More, he can disassemble and assemble it blindfolded in the dark and one other thing..." Ski paused. "He can kill you with it. The second thing he has going for him, is he's a stone cold killer with sixty-three personal kills to his credit and killin' ain't even our priority."

"I'm sincerely impressed and I'll hold a slot for him in my platoon any time he wants to stop taking those long walks you fellows do so often. Was this one particularly bad or nasty?"

"No." Ski's face tightened. "Not likely any will be ever again after the last one."

"Sounds like a good tale," I encouraged as we moved out. "Love to hear it."

"Well, this is the story of five fools saved from their stupidity by a flying feline. One heavily armed cat actually, but he didn't save us with his guns. Long range recon is not supposed to be fighting or engage in heavy contact – any contact for that matter. It's get in, get a look, get out and give the info to the boys with the brains.

"We were out much further from home then we'd ever ventured and felt none too secure about that. The third day out we encountered some NVA late in the day and exchanged fire. We broke clear and didi-maued for deeper cover. They didn't pursue very long. We ain't easy to trail, and we're known to leave unpleasant gifts if you try to follow us. However, we had pushed out of the area we were supposed to recon, so we did a little swing around to try to get the info we came for.

"Now, another thing LRRPs don't ever do, is take prisoners. So, of course, we did just that. As dusk fell, an NVA Officer sort of walked right into us. We didn't shoot immediately because we didn't want to alert enemy troops to our presence and location. He didn't shoot, or do much of anything else, because he was boo koo sick with malaria, We grabbed him and took him with us.

"That night our hidey hole was plagued by a number of NVA patrols moving close by. Our guest decided it was a good time to get delirious. He commenced to coughing and moaning. After several attempts to quiet him, Kim medicated him by clubbing him upside the head with his M-14."

"Yeah!" I interrupted. "That is an A-2 with a modified stock, isn't it?"

"Right. Kim shortened the stock himself. He is hell come to the meeting house when he cuts loose with that baby!"

"I'll bet! I love firing the A-2. Just hate carrying it."

"Well anyway, Kim persuaded our prisoner to be quiet, and we made it through the night. Actually, the prisoner died. Malaria or the blow to the head or both, we had no way of knowing. We left him where he lay. Services were not called for because who knows what a commie gook bastard wants said about him when he's gone.

"We had a good day and completed our recon. We set out for the rendezvous and home. Unfortunately, Mr. Charles spotted us and gave chase, so to speak. The mutha sent a whole NVA Company after us. We made like Speedy Gonzalez headed for a hot date, and managed to escape and evade until darkness. In the dark we got to our pick up point. We formed a perimeter around a large tree in the clearing and settled in for the night.

"Charles started probing around 0400. He surrounded us and, quite clearly, the picture was not good for the home team. I called for help and the boys at home dispatched two Cobra gunships. They made it to our location like the cavalry—just in time. Around 0500, Charles was trying to climb into our back pockets when Tiger One and Tiger Two lit up the night and rearranged their plans."

"No shit! I know those guys. They provide excellent service."

"Yeah! They did right by us, but you ain't heard nothing yet. They covered us for over an hour, then Tiger One called down. He said our pick up choppers were twenty minutes out, but he and Tiger Two had only enough fuel to stay on station another ten minutes. I radioed a Roger and told him we wanted roses at the funeral because we couldn't last ten minutes in the coming daylight without their support.

"Almost without pause Tiger One called back and said, 'Get your ragged asses on the north side of that tree. I'm coming in one time, and I'm going to bounce on the skids and go. You better be on board when that bounce is finished.'

"Mickey, you know a thirty-six inch wide, two seat aircraft isn't normally the vehicle of choice for a party of five, but I gotta' tell ya', he bounced, we jumped, and the damn skids moaned but stayed attached to the chopper. That pilot did a hell of a job maintaining his stability when close to a thousand pounds hit that aircraft. We hugged those skids and prayed. Small arms fire ripped all around us. Tiger Two was firing cover with mini-guns and rockets. It was an exit-stage-left to beat all exits.

"All that extra weight, combined with the slow take-off speed of the Cobra, left us hanging out for target practice for several whiles, but miracles happen. No one even got scratched. We rode those skids for an hour back to Lai Khe. We came in flat to the airstrip, cut our speed to zero, hovered for a second and touched down. Mickey, when those skids settled on the pavement, the engine gave one cough and quit—out of gas! Greatest trip I've ever taken!"

"Man, that's unreal!" I grinned. "What the hell did you guys do for the pilot?"

"Damn, we grabbed his butt out of that machine and told him straight—whatever you want is yours. Money, women, booze, someone dead, you name it and done deal!"

"What did he say?"

"The crazy mother fucker wouldn't take anything. Said he was just doing his job. Shit, we finally got him to agree to booze and steaks for his company. That ain't enough of a thank you, but then, what would be?"

"Just doing his job. Amazing!" I shook my head.

We made good time to our pick up point. The LRRPs took the first of five helicopters. We took the next four. We reached Thunder Six before dark.

Fielder apparently decided against a conversation on my map reading skills. That suited me. I think he recalled the discussion some weeks earlier about our position on the ground in relation to the map. This occurred after a sweaty hour of forcing our way through a young bamboo thicket of immense proportions. Following a compass heading or maintaining an accurate count of meters traveled was a complete impossibility in that close, green labyrinth.

Fielder had called a halt, moved to my position and proceeded to chastise me. "Lieutenant, you have us way off our compass line! Every time you went around an area too thick to penetrate you went to the right. You know you're supposed to alternate. What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Sir, I doubt we're much off," I responded. "Besides, I don't see it making a hell of a lot of difference in this shit."

"Don't be a smart-ass, Lieutenant. First Lieutenant Anderson is a trained Forward Observer working with us today, and he agrees with me that you have us at least two hundred meters from where we should be. Between his experience and mine, I'm sure we are correct. What do you have to say to that?"

Before I could answer, Master Sergeant Thaddeus Jose Montoya Jiminez stepped forward. He had been looking for some field action and had traded places for the day with Sergeant Gilvey. He was a Lithuanian, Irish, Jew with a style all his own.

"Beggin' your pardon, Captain Sir. I've humped bush all over the world in all types of terrain for more than twenty-eight years now. I believe this young Mickey Six you have here is right on line where he should be. I'd have to allow as how my experience outweighs yours and the young F.O., Sir. Besides, Mickey's correct. In this terrain, it don't make a lot of difference. We've more concern here for bamboo vipers than dancing with Charlie. Wouldn't you say?"

Fielder sputtered a bit and snarled, "What if we have to fire mortars or call an air strike? What do we do then, if we are off line two hundred meters?"

Master Sergeant Jiminez grinned. "Well Sir, if you figure you are two hundred meters off, just call the strike at six hundred meters off and adjust. No big problem."

Fielder wouldn't let it go. "What would you have to say, Master Sergeant, if we call the strike in on our heads and blow ourselves to hell?"

Jiminez flashed a huge grin. "Why, Sir, I'd probably say, 'Oh Shit!' But then I'd remember what an honor it is for a professional soldier to die in the line of duty and say 'Don't mean nothin'!"

I almost swallowed my tongue stifling my laughter. Fielder's face blazed a new, previously unseen, shade of red. He about faced and walked away. I doubt he felt any better when three hundred yards later we exited the young bamboo within twenty meters of the bend in a trail which was our landmark. I'll take luck every time.

Jiminez left us for an assignment in the delta, but his masterful defense of my position would remain a barroom staple for me for many years.

Second Platoon drew perimeter duty, and I settled in for what I hoped would be a boring day. I almost got my wish. Mid-afternoon, Leon, Fat Michael, Stringer, Doc and I relaxed and discussed preferences in R&R venues. Leon allowed, "Thailand, that's the best. Least expensive and most friendly mama-sans."

Doc riposted. "Hell, Leon, you get babes where ever you..." KRUMP!

A single round, close, and we all scrambled for weapons and cover. "Hey guys! Accident. Sorry!" Private Moore waved his arms and pointed to the forty-five in his hand. "I was cleaning it and—it sort of went off—sorry."

I shuddered, grabbed my anger tightly to avoid shooting the idiot, turned to Leon and spoke through gritted teeth. "Why don't you go have a nice discussion with the private regarding the preference we have for unloading weapons prior to cleaning them?"

Leon struggled a moment longer to bring the killer inside under control. "I believe I'll do that, Sir. Does he have to remain fit for duty?"

"Yeah, but he need not be happy about it."

Leon's smile made me feel sorry for Private Moore, almost.

The day rolled into night. I hit my bedroll a little before midnight. My position snugged against the sandbag wall surrounding the artillery batteries and commanded a view of most of my sector of responsibility. I slept the dreamless sleep of the too damn tired to care.

The first warning came before my eyes opened. Daylight—I'd slept too long. I slowly opened my eyes. Directly above, it shined. Metal sky—eight feet long, a foot wide, all steel!

Damn! We lost the war while I was asleep! Better surrender.

I slowly raised my hands over my head, while sincerely hoping not to be shot.

The laughter, loud and raucous, irritated me at first. I'm going to be a P.O.W., the worst possible thing in the universe, and someone is amused. Damn shithead!

Slowly, my mind shook off the slumber dust. I looked around and Leon, Michael and the rest were laughing uproariously at my discomfort. Relief hit between my eyes. Not a captive! Won't be shot! Yea!

I rolled over, bounced to my feet and backed away from the howitzer barrel. I turned to my men and walked towards them, half belligerent for the joke and half relieved to be alive and free.

"Damn, Mickey! You woke up too soon and ruined the joke." Leon laughed. "They moved the howitzer over you ten minutes ago. They have a fire mission in three more minutes. There's significant bets over how you would react to that first boom."

I half smiled at Leon. "Well, I guess that will remain one of life's mysteries, now won't it? Let's move away a bit more and you can ask me to tell you how much I love you. You..."

KROOM!

At fifty meters the cannon's roar almost hammered me to the ground. I felt grateful that I would not hear that sound directly above my head this day. Perhaps strangely, I also felt true gratitude for the knuckleheads I commanded, who thought such a sight would be good clean fun. They were my men indeed. They fully understood I cared enough about them that I would not be offended by a practical joke of such "booming" proportions.

The schedule for the day had been a platoon sized patrol. Instead, the whole company diverted to an eagle flight, a two-klick hike, and an assault up my favorite mountain, Hill 837. Having paid for this property once, I was not cheered by the prospect of doing so again. Maybe we needed a long term mortgage, with low payments and a balloon payment at the end, say twenty years after my DEROS.

I knew the Brass would not buy that one, so I briefed my guys. "We have point, of course. We know the hill, so does Charles. All the good hidey spots from last time are probably booby trapped. Maximum speed to the top is the best bet. Also, no one of you is authorized to die. Keep that in mind. I don't want to have to discipline any of you for unauthorized death."

The men took my words as intended. The assault was even more difficult than the first time. Charley had indeed improved the defenses of the hill. We triggered seven booby traps and along with the bullets and grenades rained down on us, paid with fourteen wounded in the company. I was proud that Second hit only one trap, lost only two wounded, and took the hill quicker than the first time. We even made Charlie pay a higher price for trying to hold that damn piece of ground.

It doesn't matter. What an accomplishment! A hill we walk away from again and more ripped bodies joining the groaning, ghastly ghosts, turning my soul to lead .

Fielder joined us at the summit. I turned to him, "Captain, you should be aware, if we don't keep this damn mound of earth this time, I won't take it for you again."

"Damn it, Lieutenant, that's insubordination. If you refuse to fight where you are ordered, you'll go to jail or maybe even face a firing squad!"

"Whatever, Captain. Just don't say I didn't tell you in advance."

Whether you think it will never arrive or will finally come; whether you hope it will be soon or never be seen by some; in 'Nam DEROS was a reality. An inevitability. If you remained alive, your day would arrive to mount that freedom bird and fly off into the sky. For Leon, Coyote, and Barnes July 20 arrived, and they were ordered in to Quon Loi for processing to go home. I shook their hands and said, "Okay, thanks for doing your jobs. Now get your carcasses on that chopper and take your ugly faces away from me! I don't ever care to see them again."

They laughed, jeered, "Same by me!" "As if you're so pretty!" "Back at you, man!" and boarded the chopper.

I took pride that my sorrow at the loss of these warriors, these good men, did not show on my face. It surely ripped a savage tear in my heart. May they make it home safe.
I celebrated sending my best men back to the world by strolling down to see Yvette and purchasing a boonie hat from her.

"You buy numbah one, Aussie jungle hat, Captain-san. Make you look like A1 top soldier!" she extolled in her inimitable fashion.

A few rounds of selection and negotiation followed. I picked a plain, floppy, shapeless hat, which offered the concealment of not being a large, heavy, round piece of metal, which could be easily spotted in the woods. I overpaid Yvette and returned to my bunker pleased with a purchase that would both take a weight off my head and undoubtedly irritate the Captain.

At 0700 I washed down the last of the runny, yellow, alleged scrambled eggs, using the acrid, brown liquid being passed off as coffee, whose taste could not be made tolerable with six packs of sugar and four imitation dairy creamer substitutes. I usually drank milk, but this morning required an extra jolt to face the day. The platoon was short handed. I needed to make a decision on who to appoint squad leader. I turned my back as a Huey Slick came into the landing area and kicked up a modest dust storm.

"Hey, Mickey! When did you grow up enough to drink coffee?"

I whipped around at the first sound of that voice, "Leon! Coyote! What the hell are you guys doing here?"

"Ahh! Fucking Army clerk screwed up!" Leon replied. "We're stuck here for another day. Vietnam sucks!"

"And Mickey," Coyote laughed, "in spite of all of the wonderful entertainment to be found on a free day in Quon Loi, we decided it would be more fun to have one last chat with you."

"I'm gratified to find that I rate slightly higher than below the bottom of the barrel," I laughed. "Grab a cup of mud, and we'll recline around our favorite bunker and exchange cherished lies."

Minutes later we plopped down on sand bags, coffee (alleged) in hand. "A Toast!" I raised my mug. "Vietnam sucks, but not so much that some of the good guys can't hop a Freedom Bird and make it home!"

Mugs raised in reply, "Hear! Hear!" and we all took a swallow. For the moment, it could have been the finest champagne. The men toasted were certainly the grandest.

"Hey Mickey, Captain wants to see you at his CP, pronto!" Weiler yelled from ten yards away, as he and others came over to join the reunion.

"Exquisite fucking timing! You guys hang out for a while. I doubt I'll be very long. The Captain doesn't seem to enjoy long conversations with me—can't imagine why, I should return soon." I shrugged and headed for the Captain's post.

The Captain was in a jovial mood. Suspiciously so! My internal early warning system clanged for a five alarm fire. Fear flowed through me like a river of ice, and I knew before he spoke this would not be good.

"Lieutenant, I'll get right to the point. We have a search and destroy leaving in forty-five minutes, and we are grossly undermanned. I want you to bring along those two soldiers that flew in this morning. I—"

"Are you insane? These guys are done! Today is their DEROS!"

"At ease, Lieutenant!" the Captain's predatory shark-like smile seemed to swim in the air for a moment. "Those men are soldiers, required to serve as commanded."

"Sir, this ain't gonna' happen." I managed through teeth clamped shark-defying tight.

"That's enough, Lieutenant." Fielder's predatory features seemed to expand with delight, " I order you to— "

"Finish that sentence and you better have a body bag handy," I snarled.

Damn! Insanity can be wonderfully calming.

We stared at each other. In my eyes he saw the truth of my anger; in his, I found the reality of his fear. Problem Solving Central, get your ass in gear and get me out of here! I screamed silently.

Roger! Take the decision away from him. Make him let the guys decide.

"Captain, against my much better judgment, I'll tell you what I will do. I will ask the men if they want to accompany us and let them decide. A year's service in this hell has got to have earned them that. C'mon."

"Well, I don't know if I'm more concerned about what they've earned or about your attitude, Lieutenant."

Quick! Kiss his ass!

Right!

"Captain, I apologize for what I said. You just caught me off guard. I know you care about these guys. Let the decision be theirs and if they decide not to come, just let it be. We'll get through the day." Damn! Bile is hard to keep down.

"Well—All right, Lieutenant, but you be damn sure you emphasize how shorthanded we are and how much we need them."

"Absolutely! Right! Yes, Sir! No problem, Sir!" I saluted and retreated as quickly as minimum, military decorum allowed. Moments later I rejoined Leon and Coyote.

"Hey, Mickey," Leon chuckled, "what did the chowder head have to say?"

"Gather round, children." I waved to them, "And I'll tell you a tale. Leon, Coyote, in a minute I'm going to ask you a serious question. I want you to get established in your minds that the answer to the question is 'Hell no!' Do you understand?"

"Sure, Mickey."

"Right."

"Okay then, to be clear, I will ask you a question and you will respond, 'No damn way!' Are you straight on that?"

"Yeah."

"Uh huh."

"Good! Now I want to be absolutely positive, that you guys understand the answer needs to be, 'No fucking way!' This is important. Make sure you know what I want you to do."

"Mickey," Leon interjected, "enough already. What's the question?"

"Yeah man." Coyote nodded his head.

"Okay, guys, okay. It's just that it is very important and the only answer I can accept is, 'No fucking goddam way!' I mean— "

"Mickeee!" Leon's frustrated cry allowed me to believe I would get the answer I sought.

"All right. The asshole on the hill wants you guys to come with us on patrol today, because we are short handed."

"What!" Leon's anger was palpable. "Screw that little pipsqueak. I wouldn't cross the road to piss on him if he were on fire." He paused and tugged on his bush hat, "But hell, a last round with you—that would be fun, Mickey. I'll go with you."

"What he said, double for me." Coyote allowed in the driest of tones.

"Guys! Men! You're not listening. The answer is supposed to be noooo!"

"Lighten up, Mickey. It's okay and we want to do it." Leon said.

The shroud around my heart fluttered and fear slid an icy blade point into me. This can't be happening. These men do not need to do this. Damn! I can't stop it. We'll just have to make it through.

"Right Leon, just a walk in the park. We'll do it one more time, because it is sooo much fun. Better get ready to move out."

Second moved through the gate on point. Fielder could not resist that thrust. Coyote, on hearing the news, shrugged, looked at me and said, "Who would you rather have on point?"

"Impossible to argue that," I conceded. "Do it right one more time."

We moved into the brush. With each step I struggled to not move into hyper-senses and screw up by being too ready for action because of my fear for the safety of these men. Finding the right balance was excruciating. Every moment contained the possibility of disaster. Each step descended deeper into a quagmire.

Coyote stayed as cool as ever on point. Leon's presence calmed all those around him. I felt completely alone in my concern. Although I knew everyone in Second Platoon cared deeply for these two men, I bore the ultimate responsibility for them.

Shortly after noon we stopped for a lunch break. Coyote and Leon sat near me.

"Piece of cake, Mickey," Leon laughed. "No sweat, G.I."

"What he said," Coyote echoed. "Mickey, there's a lot of vacant space out here. Charlie is simply not in the area. I'm not tuning anything out here except open skies."

"Hey! I'll believe that if you guys do. You haven't steered me wrong yet. I just want to get through the day and get rid of your ugly faces, permanently!"

"Yeah! Like you're so pretty," Coyote laughed.

Leon just nodded, and I thought My words don't fool him. He understands how I feel and what I'm fighting. Damn, if he ain't a piece of work for an Ohio farmboy!

The Captain changed the route for the afternoon. My fevered mind knew this had to be a further attempt to destroy my men, lack of evidence not withstanding. We hiked through the brush. Coyote strolled along in the lead. Leon's presence stayed strong. I rode a roller coaster of fear with each step.

The day remained hot and quiet. The patrol moved at a good pace and found nothing. I would not let even a faint hope for a quiet day interfere with my focus. Time passed, however, and ground was traversed. We came around a clump of bamboo and Thunder Six was in sight, less than 700 meters away. I broke into a cold sweat fearing disaster on the doorstep. I tried to see in all directions at the same time. Every sense exploded in my total belief that a catastrophe would happen before we reached the gate.

It did not. We cleared the gate and reached our platoon area. At the air strip a helicopter waited for Leon and Coyote. I hugged each in turn. "Just get out of here guys. Go! Live your lives!"

They boarded the chopper and lifted out of my life. My relief at sending them home safely for a second time had me floating euphorically along side their helicopter.

"See there, Lieutenant," Fielder's acrid presence burst my good feelings. "That wasn't any big problem. Those men just had to do their job."

I stared at this colossal fool for a moment. "Sir, you just don't get it, do you? If one of those men were injured in any way, if one of them had so much as stubbed his toe out there, I. Would. Have. Killed. You!" I shook my head trying to find a way to communicate what I now knew to be the truth. "Understand me, Sir. If you ever get one of my people killed with your stupidity. Well, Sir, I will not hesitate. I will kill you." I snapped a salute as military courtesy required and walked away from him. His mouth hung open, apparently nonfunctional.

My God in heaven. The rock bottom truth is I would do exactly what I just said. He's the fucking enemy, more than Charlie. He and those like him who don't give a damn about the men doing the fighting. Now, I've drawn my line. Crazy is indeed comforting. If they cause my men to die then they've definitely signed their own death warrant. I can take the bastards out. What's the worst that can happen? I join the ghoul platoon ahead of schedule? I took a firmer grip on my M-16. I'll absolutely have to watch both sides of the ditch from here on. Make no mistake, son! That's a deep fucking ditch you're digging!

****

Chapter 11 ~ Phu Loi

I expected some reaction from Fielder, but understood he could afford to be patient. Second drew perimeter duty the next day. I let the day pass lazily without significant worry that he would strike. My attitude: "Do your worst and be damned!" His attack wouldn't be straight forward, but I was confident I 'd handle anything he offered.

Late in the afternoon we received an unexpected but pleasant surprise. We were to stand down at Quon Loi. Charlie Company was already in the air to take over Thunder Six. We scrambled and were waiting at the airstrip as Charlie Company's choppers rotored down onto the runway. My only regret was not getting to say goodbye to Yvette.

My ship lifted and swung in a half circle around the Thunder as it gained altitude. Sitting in the doorway on the floor of the Huey I had an excellent view of the entrance to that outpost. Curious behavior at the gate drew my attention. I watched as Charlie Company troops donned gas masks, pulled out CS canisters, and proceeded to tear gas the villagers to chase them away from the entrance.

Cripes! Those idiots are really looking for trouble. That fool C.O. almost makes Fielder look intelligent. Well, their problem not mine. I leaned back and enjoyed the ride. I always loved the exhilaration of sitting in the open doorway and blasting over the beautiful, green panorama. I guess that it why it always irritated me when people interrupted my fun by shooting at me.

We reached Quon Loi without incident. Fielder instructed us to settle in but cautioned we would likely be moving on in the morning. He told the officers to assemble at Battalion HQ after supper.

The chef's surprise, a brown meat-like substance in over-thick gravy, sat heavy in my stomach as I approached HQ. My spirits were high. I had drawn my line in the sand. I would defend it without regret. On the plus side, I had no plans for a long term military career anyway.

Loud, angry voices greeted me as I stepped through the entrance. "You will, by God, obey my order or go before a military court on charges of desertion in face of the enemy!" I recognized the dulcet tones of Captain "Marvelous" Fielder. Shit! I hope that's not one of mine he's yelling at. I walked into the room.

"Lieutenant! Just the person I need. You will make an excellent witness. Step over there and watch and listen closely to what I have to say to Private Simmons here. You will likely be testifying at his court martial."

I did not recognize Pvt. Simmons, a relief of sorts. "Yes, Sir." I complied with Fielder's directions.

The Captain turned to the young, visibly distressed, black man standing by the desk. "Private Simmons, as your lawful commander, I am ordering you to join your company in the field and fulfill your duties as a combat infantry soldier in facing the enemies of our country."

Damn! Fielder sets a new standard for being pompous. Absolutely amazing!

Simmons, for his part, appeared to be drowning in fear. In the pleading voice of an abject coward, he said "Sir—please don't—I can't, I mean I really can not do that—I—If you'll just let me explain—"

"That's enough!" Fielder's voice cut cold and sharp. "You have refused a lawful order to join your company in the face of the enemy. I believe the charges will include desertion and possibly treason."

"But, Sir if I could just explain—" Simmons spoke in a teary voice.

"Shut up, Private!" Fielder's voice had a strange joy in it. "You are finished. Lieutenant, you witnessed it! He defied a direct order, did he not?"

"Sir, yes he did." I disliked agreeing with Fielder about anything, but the facts were clear enough and I had little sympathy for a man who would not join the rest of us on line as a "dog-soldier."

Fielder stepped to the hallway. "Sergeant Major, could you stay with Private Simmons while I meet with my officers in the conference room?"

My fellow Platoon Leaders had joined us at some point during the Captain's performance. The Sergeant Major took custody of Simmons, and we gathered in the conference room with Fielder.

"Battalion has assigned us to a NDP west of Phu Loi," Fielder said. "We will be conducting platoon ambushes and platoon and company patrols to interdict enemy traffic. Word is Charlie has a high presence and a distinct fondness for booby traps. We've experienced some casualties in the area. The terrain is a combination of rice paddy and underbrush, with a limited amount of jungle. The Saigon River runs through also. Any questions?"

None were expressed.

"Okay, breakfast at 0700. Eagle flights out at 0900." Fielder waved his arm in dismissal. "Get some rest and be ready to go in the morning."

We turned to leave.

"Not you, Lieutenant." Fielder tapped my shoulder. " I have more for you."

Okay. It starts here. Round one. I'm ready."

As soon as the others exited, Fielder began. "We have no facility to keep Private Simmons while he's awaiting court martial. I'm assigning him to your platoon. You're responsible for keeping him secure. That damn, little coward is going to fry, by God!"

"Sir," I interrupted. "I've got no problem with frying the Private, but really, how am I supposed to keep an eye on him when we're on patrol and ambush?"

"That's your problem. He'll just have to stay with your platoon. Work it out!" He waved his hand in imperial dismissal. "That's all."

"Yes, Sir." I saluted and went back up the hall to round up the Private I had him follow me outside to a bench next to the HQ's entrance.

"As good a place to talk as any." I waved the Private to sit down. "Theodore Simmons, Private, Infantry, United States Army." I paused. "You are in very deep doo doo, young man. Do you want to talk about it?"

A slender light of hope lit up his eyes. "Yes, Sir! I just want to explain. I know I'm in trouble. If I could just tell my side of it. I mean, If someone would just listen."

"Okay! I'll listen. What's your story?"

"Sir, it's just that—first you need to know I am the sole support of my mother. That's for real and you can check on it. I love my mom, just like anybody. I worry every day what will happen to her if I don't make it home. Then, with that on my mind, when we get ready to go on patrol or ambush—well, the guys start talking, just kidding I know, but when they start in on buying the farm, or getting wasted, or blown to hell, I get scared and I just can't handle it." He looked at me as the last hope for understanding of a man caught between the jungle and LBJ (the Long Binh Jail, not the President).

Simmons sounded sincere, but I had no real way of judging. Problem Solving Central, I could use some assistance. What am I supposed to do with this guy? Short pause and P.S.C. came back, Get him to buy into believing he's safe—well—relatively safe if he stays with you.

"Simmons, let me ask you something. Do I strike you as crazy or stupid?"

"What? No, Sir. Word on you is you're a straight player and a good Platoon Leader."

"So you don't think I would be careless or foolish about getting myself killed?"

"That's a strange question. But, no I think you would be sharp about keeping yourself alive."

"Okay then. Let's make a deal. You stick with me. You do your job as an infantryman and keep your nose clean. In return, I promise I will not get you killed by any foolish or stupid decisions. I may get you killed, but it will be doing the job right and just having bad luck. No unauthorized dying allowed. What do you think?"

"I think I can do that, Sir. But what about my disobeying an order?"

"Tell you what, you stick with me and stay straight. Prove you can do it, and I will go to bat for you. No guarantees. But, I will make the effort. Deal?"

Simmons smiled broadly, "Deal, Sir, and thank you."

"That's okay. Just don't disappoint me."

I put Simmons in Fat Michael's squad, advised Michael of his true status, and left him to keep an eye on Simmons. I responded to the call of night life at the Officer's Club. A few—well, a lot of cheap drinks seemed, somehow, like a good plan.

Just before the bar closed at midnight, word came in that Thunder Six was being hit with a massive attack of 82MM mortars and intense small arms fire. The bar remained open, and we monitored the progress of the assault. Having an excuse to keep the bar going after midnight was always welcome. The fighting finally terminated at 0130 hours, leaving enough time to return to the company area and get a solid four hours of sleep before the new day began.

The word at breakfast had the Villagers at the Thunder Six gate a few minutes after daylight. All business resumed. The lesson, Children: It is never wise to interfere with the conduct of commerce.

The conduct of war, on the other hand, will always stand ready to mess up your day. The NDP we were assigned did not look like much from the air. Reminds me of that abandoned lot where we were afraid to play as kids. It appeared to be a small mound of freshly moved earth about six hundred meters across, surrounded by two rows of barbed wire. A center section of sand bag walls housed an 81MM mortar battery. Rice paddies stretched out to the west and north. The south contained scrub underbrush. The east included the dirt road to Phu Loi with a local village about a mile up the way. Beyond the western rice paddy area the Saigon river flowed.

The NDP was built up high enough to provide a view of most of the countryside surrounding it. As we moved through the gate, it was obvious that the interior could not be accurately called an entrenched position. The bunkers shallow and uncovered; the barbed wire perimeter unfastened in a number of areas; only a limited number of claymore mines distributed around the perimeter—not terribly comforting.

Fielder's instructions were terse. "First and third platoons both have ambush tonight. Second platoon will have responsibility for the entire perimeter. You'll be spread thin, so pick your locations carefully. The daylight left is to be spent improving the NDP. We will have a Rome Plow tomorrow to move dirt and flue gas drums will be available in the next few days. Get to it."

I gave a fleeting thought to requesting discharges for all concerned, but decided not to waste a good piece of sarcasm on someone who wouldn't appreciate it. Sergeant Gilvey and I toured the perimeter to decide how best to distribute the twenty-five men we had for defending the NDP. We selected ten bunkers for two man sites with a three man reaction team headed by Gilvey and a two man reaction team consisting of me and my R.T.O. Fielder's "stretched thin" comment was hardly an apt description of a situation that had two men every fifty meters and a whopping five man reserve.

We worked on the bunkers in our section the rest of the day. Immediately after supper, Third, riding on armored personnel carriers left for its ambush. First, with a closer ambush site, left on foot. I led Second around the perimeter assigning bunker teams as we went. We settled in for the night.

I ran my third perimeter tour at 0100 hours. As I approached the bunker on the easternmost side, I heard what sounded like the soft voice of a female of the species in a decidedly romantic mood. Suspicions aroused, I moved silently to the back of the bunker. I saw four bodies. "What the Hell is going on!" I hissed. I held my M-16 ready for—I didn't know what.

"Hey, Mickey! It's cool man." Fat Michael whispered. "We've got a couple of guys from the Captain's HQ with us. We're listening to Chris Noel. Come on in and join us."

"You're what? Listening to Christmas music in July? You want to explain that?" I managed to stammer.

"No, Mickey. Not Christmas music, Chris Noel. She's one of the hottest little blondes you've ever seen. She's engaged to a Green Beret Captain and runs a regular show of pop hits on AFVN radio for us. Tonight is different though. She's reading love poetry!"

"Michael, are you pulling my chain? A gorgeous blonde engaged to a Special Forces Officer is on the air at fucking 0100 in the fucking AM reading love poetry? Does not sound very likely to me."

"Forget likely man. Try real! Come on in, pull up a chair, and sit on the floor. You're in for a treat!"

I sat down. As I settled in, a very soft, slightly husky, decidedly female voice engulfed my brain. Words whispered, as if the speaker were barely awake in her bed, caressing her lover with those angelic tones, instantly transported me to personal memories of a special redheaded flame of mine. Chris Noel spoke only a few words at a time, seemingly so breathless from romantic activity she could not sustain more. Her words—poetry of love written by all time masters of love—flowed by unnoticed. Her tone and breathless attitude alone registered with me.

I recalled that last rainy Georgia night with Vanessa, my hands and lips roaming the bounty of her breasts and the fecund valley between her ballerina legs, our bodies striving to find that bridge to merge into one. Her dancer's body, with its unending legs and tight, bubble shaped posterior both inspiring and distracting towards that goal.

Her hands stroking where stroking is meant to be done. Equally inspirational and distracting—very distracting. Chris Noel's words impinging, "The merest touch of my lover..." Nothing of my redhead could be described as mere!

Saying everything to each other without a word passing our lips. My tongue invaded Vanessa. Her mouth devoured me. The taste of our passion, delectable—the true food of the gods.

We were the universe and completely alone together. We drifted in time and space—connected—the very core of life!

"Damn! Charlie better not attack right now!"

The words jolted me back to the bunker. The speaker, Spec. 4 Telfley, the Captain's new R.T.O. was not one of my favorite people to start with. At the moment, the thought of slicing him into thin pieces and feeding him to Charlie was a pleasant one.

All present agreed that if Charlie attacked at that moment we would be understandably upset and kill his worthless ass. "Now, Telfley," Fat Michael spoke dangerously low, "Shut the fuck up and let us listen to the program."

My thoughts returned instantly to the curvaceous, voluptuous redhead, to a time so long ago, and a distance so far away—Had it been real? Was it some fantastic dream never to be attained in the life of a mortal man? No! I could still feel the moment of our mutual explosion—mutual devastation—eternal connection! She would be there every day of my life, however few or many I had left. I knew that this blessing, neither earned nor deserved, would sustain me.

We listened until the end of the program at 0200. When Chris gave a sigh, signed off and rolled over in bed to cuddle with us. Each and every one!

As I completed my rounds, I fully understood that drawing my line—my commitment to my men—would result in a confrontation that might destroy me. Yet, I was happy in the knowledge that, if I managed to survive, there were things worth returning to in the world.

The next morning both platoons returned having had no contact. A good night for all!, I thought. But mine was way better.

Around mid-morning, the Engineers arrived with a Rome Plow and two industrial size backhoes to work on the NDP. My command bunker overlooked the NDP entrance. When the engineers finished, it was approximately twenty by ten feet and about four feet deep. About half of the bunker was roofed with 12x12 timbers and three feet of packed earth. It was set at an angle so the open section covered the fence area and the covered section, for sleeping and rest, provided shelter, but also fast access to firing positions.

Mine would have been considered palatial if not for what the Captain had done for his HQ Bunker. The Rome Plow dug a hole almost straight down, deep enough for the plow itself to disappear. 12x12 timbers completely covered the opening. Three feet of fill was compacted on the timbers, then a second set of timbers was laid crosswise and three more feet of dense fill applied. Finally, a stairwell was dug to allow access from above.

The stairs ran down eight feet. Lanterns lit the interior, which included a field table, four folding chairs and a cot. The first time I entered, I distinctly felt the walls close in on me.

The bunker provided a great deal of commentary. Most of it not complimentary.

"What does that idiot think? Charlie's got a nuke?" one private sounded off.

"If that's what he's thinking, it looks like he figures he'll survive it and fuck the rest of us!" another responded.

"Hey, Mickey," Fat Michael grinned. "What do you think of the Captain's Bunker of Doom?"

"Bunker? Looks more like a pit." I answered. "Fielder's private Pit of Doom!" I laughed.

By late afternoon, at any location outside the hearing of Captain Fielder, the HQ Bunker was referred to as "The Pit."

At 0300 the Captain called the officers to his "Pit." "We've just received some new weaponry. Each platoon will get one each Star Lite Telescope for one M-16. Give the scope to your best shot and utilize it for sniper missions. We'll set up outside the fence in thirty minutes to test them and familiarize your men.

"The second item is a new flare round that has been developed for the M-79s. It will put a flare up about a hundred and fifty feet and give about thirty seconds of visibility. Our supply is limited. Twenty per platoon. Don't waste any testing them out."

To my surprise, when I informed my men of the Star Lite Scope, Private Simmons spoke up. "Sir, I would request that I be allowed to test the scope and be the platoon sniper."

I looked at the rest of the platoon. "Anyone else interested?" I asked. Silence extended for half a minute.

"Give him the shot, Mickey. He can cut it," said Spec. 4 Collins. A generally soft spoken, black man, since the King and Kennedy assassinations, Collins had gradually become more outspoken. He was clearly a leader among the blacks in the company.

"Private Simmons, your request is granted." I raised my index finger and pointed squarely between his eyeballs. "Don't let the men in this platoon down. Ya hear?"

Simmons did not smile. "Thank you, Sir. I won't let them down." The grim look on his face almost made me feel sympathy for Charlie.

Fielder's going to love this one. Problem Solving Central kicked in. What are you going to say when he asks why you made a deserter a sniper?

Gee! I don't know. Hadn't thought about it. Maybe I'll just tell him it gives Simmons a better chance of hitting any officers he shoots at—I just really hope the son of a bitch can shoot.

Fielder fulfilled my expectations. "Okay. We've got Atkins from first and Bradshaw from third. Lieutenant, who's shooting for second?"

"Sir, Private Simmons wants to give it a try," I responded.

"Private Simm—harrumph—Private Simmons?" Fielder managed. "What the hell do you think you are doing, Lieutenant? We're not going to give a special assignment to a goddamed deserter! Why did you choose him?"

"Well Sir, he isn't a convicted deserter yet. If he is in my platoon, I have to figure out his best assignment, and besides—"

"Besides what? Lieutenant you better make this good!"

"Besides – he requested the assignment, Sir."

As I never argued with Fielder, we discussed the matter for a few minutes "with vigah" as Kennedy would say. Finally, I got Fielder to reluctantly agree to let Simmons test fire the scope. I said, "Hell, Sir, let him give it a try, and if you don't agree with my choice you can have the fucking scope back."

All three men had been briefed on use of the Starlite and had the scopes fitted to their rifles. Each had a target set out a hundred yards to zero in the scopes. Atkins from First Platoon fired first. One shot, check the hit, adjust the scope, then a second shot and repeat. Bradshaw from Third Platoon fired his first moments after Atkins and began the same routine.

Simmons waited almost a minute before firing his first round. He stared at the hit a full ten seconds, adjusted his scope, and sighted in on the target. He rapid fired nineteen rounds into the target, creating a hole in its center which my hand would cover.

The echo from Simmons last shot hung in the suddenly very quiet air. He looked over at me and grinned. I gave him a thumbs up and turned to the Captain. "Looks like Second Platoon has a sniper. Wouldn't you agree, Sir?"

Fielder's face was blank—shock I thought—then it turned a blazing fire engine red. His voice carried a distinct tremor when he finally spoke. "You have a sniper—for the moment. Enjoy him while you can. I guarantee you it won't be for very long." He stared at me with obvious virulent hatred for a few moments. I enjoyed it and smiled at him as sweetly as I could. "All officers to my HQ in fifteen minutes," he harshly ground out. "Dismissed!" He wheeled and stomped off.

"Only one ambush tonight," Fielder was somewhat calmer. "First and Third Platoons have perimeter duty. Second will be picked up by armored personnel carriers with tank support and will ambush at the same site first used last night. For the foreseeable future this site will be manned each night on a rotating basis."

"What!" "That's crazy!" "No way!" Hall, Kelly, and I erupted as one.

"That's like begging Charlie to set up and blow us away," I interjected. "You're asking us to commit suicide. That's fucking insane. We don't even use the same route coming in from a sweep that we use going out so Charlie can't set up on us. Now you're sending an engraved invitation: Dear Charlie, please meet us at 1930 hours by the intersection and put us out of our fucking misery by blowing our goddam heads off. Who is the idiot behind this decision? I want to kick his—"

"Stop right there, Lieutenant!" Fielder interrupted. "The decision on ambush locations and timing is straight from Battalion and that is all there is to it. You'll do the job you are ordered to do or you can join Private Simmons at a court martial. Desertion in the face of the enemy is a serious matter—"

"Yes, Sir, almost as serious as stupidity in the face of the universe. You won't get me on bogus desertion charges, though. I'll lead my platoon wherever I have to, but this particular assignment is under the strongest protest."

"No one cares about your protests, Lieutenant. Tell it to the Chaplain." Fielder's grin was evil. "Any other questions? Dismissed."

Riding on APCs is a bit bumpy but non-strenuous, and the company of tanks is always comforting. Of course, if the enemy knows you're coming to the same place along the same route every night, he can pick the time, place and strategy of an engagement. Land mines and properly placed rocket propelled grenades are both capable of taking out APCs and tanks. Home made claymore mines, as Charlie produced them, were much bigger and more powerful than American claymores. They were also filled with shrapnel ranging from glass to rusty nails, often mixed with feces in order to make even small wounds a serious matter. My concern was not the possibility but the inevitability of an ambush completely on the other guy's terms. The type of situation for which they coined the term "Sitting Duck."

To add to the fun, the actual ambush site on the river was almost a half mile from the road where we dismounted. If Charlie didn't want to deal with the tanks he could wait on us and choose his moment. I knew with utter certainty that Americans would die here if we kept this up. It was strictly a roll of the dice to determine which Americans.

I could not change the situation, so I dealt with it. "Michael, take the lead. Full alert. Be ready to fight at any moment. I'll be at mid-platoon to maneuver the rest of the men as needed. Let's move quickly. No need to give Charlie any extra time. Questions?"

"Nah, Mickey. Piece of cake." Michael nodded.

"Cake? You holding out on me on one of your mother's care packages?"

"Never on you, Mickey!" Michael shook his head, "You know I would never short you."

"I know, Michael. Let's do it."

We entered the site without incident and set up quickly. I surveyed our surroundings in the last few minutes of light. Across the river, about a half mile from us was a medium sized village. It was allegedly friendly, meaning they were not likely to shoot at us directly, but would likely have no problem relaying our whereabouts.

The night passed quietly until 0300. "Mickey?" my R.T.O. was shaking me awake. "Simmons has two targets, in a boat on the river. Wants permission to fire."

"Uhhh. Where on the river?"

"About two hundred meters out. Headed down river away from the village."

"Okay, pass the word. Fire in the hole in fifteen seconds and then Simmons can take them out."

"Roger."

Twenty five seconds passed.

KRACK!

Followed by a distant...Splash. Two seconds later...

KRACK!

Followed by...Splash.

Silence reclaimed us. Damn! First, rapid fire at a hundred meters, now two VC at two hundred meters. Simmons can shoot! Why the hell is he scared to be out here? The rest of us should do so well. Fielder ain't gonna like this. Two kills but no confirmation because of the river. Damn!

I called the contact in and reported two kills by sniper. After a brief discussion with Fielder, he commented, "No confirmation on the bodies means no credit. You're not getting Simmons off with crap like this, Lieutenant."

"Sir, I'm not trying to do anything except report enemy contact and results. I'll leave it at that. Out."

The sun rose. The river rolled placidly on with no signs of violent death. We pulled the ambush and moved back to the road for our pick up. The APCs and tanks showed about an hour after sunrise. We returned to the NDP without incident and headed for the chow tent. Fielder and the other officers were sipping on their post-breakfast bitter, black, watery substance laughingly referred to as coffee.

I sat my tray of yellow egg-like material, a hard flour rock known as a biscuit, and a bowl of corn flakes on the table and joined them.

"Good Morning, Sir, Gentlemen," I cheerfully assayed. "I'm truly curious, Sir. Is there some specific idea that ambushing that same site over and over is meant to accomplish?"

"Lieutenant, you need to stop questioning command decisions. Don't think I don't know you're trying to pull something with Simmons. You can't hide that from me."

"Sir, Private Simmons killed two of the enemy with one shot each at an approximate distance of two hundred meters using the Starlite sniper scope. Two shots, two kills. That's all I have to say."

"Well, Lieutenant, stick to this. Second has a platoon search and destroy today. About three klicks through some interesting terrain. You should have no problem making it back in time for perimeter duty tonight."

"Sounds like a good time, Sir. But, I ain't changing my story." I smiled as sweetly as I could in the hope it would make Fielder's coffee even more bitter. Judging from his expression after his next sip, I succeeded.

Doc stopped by as we prepared for patrol. Hey, Mickey! You should have heard Fielder taking credit with the Colonel this morning for two kills on the ambush. You would have thought he killed them himself. The self-righteous son of a bitch."

"No surprise there, Doc. Let me guess. He could not, unfortunately, identify for the Colonel, the soldier who did the actual shooting."

"Why, Sherlock," Doc grinned. "Your methods of deduction are absolutely astounding!"

"Doc, you are so full of it. But lovable all the same."

"Yes, Mickey. I am the classic gifted Hispanic male for sure!" Doc beamed. "Hey what are you doing with your knife and that tape?"

"Ahhh. I'm still trying to find the best way to carry this pig sticker. It gets in my way too often. I thought I would try taping it to the barrel of my M-16. That should keep it handy but out of my way. What do you think?"

"Handy? Yes, but won't it interfere with your aim?"

"Doc, Doc, Doc." I shook my head, "I'm a combat soldier. I don't aim. I just point and shoot."

Doc's laughter lightened my day. The platoon rucked up and headed out the gate.

Fielder had identified a vicious bit of terrain for us to patrol. Hills, ditches, clumps of underbrush sufficient for hiding an ambush, complete with a small stream meandering through for us to cross frequently. The platoon performed well and did not seem overly stressed or concerned. The day wore on with the temperature performing its usual dance starting hot and gradually getting hotter all day long.

We stopped for a break. I took two long swallows of warm water, with the miraculous property of being wet. God! What a great invention water was. I looked around the platoon and observed Spec. 4 Thompson, a black man, pull a canteen from his belt and hand it to the white, very redneck Pvt. Moore. Sharing and caring for each other was standard issue, but something buzzed in the back of my head. It hit me, and I quickly moved over to the two soldiers.

"Moore, where are your canteens?" I paused, "What exactly is going on here?"

Thompson, clearly nervous, jumped in, "Sir, I was just sharing some of my water. Nothing wrong with that. Is there?"

"Usually no. But everyone has to carry his share or we lose effectiveness and somebody dies. You know that Thompson. Moore, I asked you a question."

"Well—Uhhh—Sir. I guess I just forgot my canteens, and Thompson was just helping me to—"

"No sale! No fucking way," I snarled. "Who the fuck do you think you're talking to? Lieutenant Fucking New Guy? Nobody forgets their water. What in hell is happening here?"

They both stood with their heads down and offered no response. Time slowed, microseconds taking minutes. No response.

"Okay. I'll sort this out later. Meantime, Thompson, you nor anyone else is to give Moore any more water. Do you understand?"

"Sir, we can't let the man die of thirst. Besides, what will you do if we don't follow your order? Send us to 'Nam?" Thompson spit his defiance.

I took a fast step right up to Thompson, and stared into his eyes from inches away. I spoke so softly, I doubted even Moore could hear me. "No. If you endanger the men in this platoon with this nonsense, I will simply kill you. Do you think you are good enough to take me on?"

I didn't move. Thompson's eyes darted everywhere looking for help. None was found. He melted.

"No, Sir. I wouldn't want that."

"Good." I whispered. I patted his arm. "Stay righteous. I'll kill you if you don't."

I turned and calmly, slowly walked up the line to Fat Michael. A hurricane assaulted a volcano in my gut. No one could ever tell that from my considered stroll away from the situation.

"Michael," I motioned him to join me away from the others. "What the hell is going on here? I suddenly have to threaten one of my own people! What gives?"

Michael uncharacteristically refused to look at me. "Umm, Mickey. I don't really know what to tell you. I mean, basically Thompson owed Moore a favor, and—"

"Mike, that's crap. You don't have someone carry your water as a favor."

"Well, uhh, it's sort of a uhh situation. I just don't know—"

"Maybe I can help." Spec. 4 Collins interrupted us. "I've got it Michael. Let me bring Mickey up to where he needs to be."

Michael nodded his thanks and moved quickly back to the platoon.

I looked at Collins, shrugged my shoulders and said "Well?"

"Well indeed. Mickey, I'm not telling you this to be an informer, or to bring about justice. You're a damn good Platoon Leader and a rare white officer because you're fair and honest with the brothers. That's why I'm telling you this."

I nodded and waited.

"Thompson is hauling Moore's water in exchange for some weed. Thompson never has no cash. He wanted some pot and Moore dealt it for carrying his water."

Oh boy! Drug dealing, building racial tension, and rather excessive stupidity. Why me Lord? What have I ever done?

"Drugs? How bad in this platoon?" I asked.

Collins shook his head, "No big thing, Mickey. Just a little friendly weed now and then. Its just that Thompson is a fool and Moore is a jerk. You don't have any major worry on this. Oh! and on that other thing, you don't need to watch your back on Thompson. The brothers will chill him. Like I said, we like you. We've got your back."

"Thanks for letting me know. We need to get moving."

I had lots on my mind as we completed our patrol. I determined to follow the wise advice Vanessa had once given me—don't make difficult decisions any sooner than you have to.

We returned safely to the NDP in time for a hot supper.

The morning brought another visit from the engineers. By noon they excavated a three sided stall large enough to hold a tank, set up four flue gas locations, and dug a three foot wide ditch for a "classy" three seat latrine about thirty meters from the barbed wire. The tank a 40MM M42, backed into the stall. It was armed with WWII 40MM anti-aircraft cannon known as "Pom Pom" guns, in lieu of the long cannon, for an experiment in providing interdictory fire. The flue gas, 55 gallon steel drums filled with napalm, were set in the ground to explode on any forces breaching our barbed wire. The latrine was a nice luxury.

"Damn, Mickey! If they keep fancying up the place, I'll be tempted to stay here in the boonies." Gilvey laughed as we walked to lunch. "I mean a three seat latrine...."

"Gilvey, ever since you got back from R& R in Australia you've been chomping at the bit to get a REMF assignment. You ain't willing to stay out here for a sand bag seat over a ditch. Hell, if you are, I'll get one assigned just for your use."

"Well now, Mickey, tell you what. If they elevate the cuisine here to the standard of the Bourbon & Beefcake Bar in Sydney, I'd have to think very carefully about it."

"Nah! I'm sure you would hold out for one of those brothels at Kings Cross. And no one is buying your stories about freebies. You just ain't that pretty, man!"

Laughter continued through lunch, despite the sad fact that the cuisine was not in the same league as the aforementioned establishment, where a shot of quality bourbon went for about $2.00 (Australian) and a hearty beefsteak went for about $10.00.

Captain Fielder was at Battalion HQ for the day and had left us with a stand down day at the NDP to clean up and get some rest. Everyone was in a good mood. Collins and Simmons asked to speak with me.

"Sure guys. Let's find a couple of clean sand bags to rest our butts on, and we can be relaxed while we discuss the state of the world."

Collins began. "Mickey, the brothers thinks it is time for you to fulfill your part of the bargain with Private Simmons. He's pulled his share of the load plus a bit and kept his nose clean. What about it?"

"Collins, I'm curious. Why are the brothers so interested in Simmons case? Apart from being black and doing a good job for a short period, he also defied a lawful order to join combat forces in the field. That's serious stuff."

"The brothers don't believe it was a lawful order. That prick Fielder set it up, the racist son of a bitch! We need to know where you stand."

"Where I stand?" I paused, "I guess I stand where I always do. I gave my word. I'll do my best to keep it. The decision comes a little sooner than I expected, but the world ain't going to wait on me. Okay. I'll talk to Fielder at the first chance. We'll see what happens from there."

"Good enough, Mickey. Keep this up and we may make you an honorary brother." Collins grinned.

"Yeah! Well hell, I've already got the tan for it." Everyone laughed.

"Hey, Simmons—shooting the way you do and all—well, how come you get so scared?" I asked.

"Mickey, you don't get to stay alive just because you're good. I've seen too many brothers, black and white, go down from nothing but bad luck. Most Platoon Leaders don't have your record for keeping men alive."

"You're right about that, and I'll take luck every time, but I think being good at least gives an edge, when there is one to be had."

"Right!" Simmons said, "but edges don't seem terribly particular where they cut, now, do they?"

"Ouch! On that cutting remark I'll end the philosophical debate. In the meantime, I'm glad to have whatever advantage your shooting provides us."

Fielder returned late in the afternoon and called the officers to his pit. "We have no assigned ambush tonight. Breakfast will be in shifts starting at 0500. At 0600 we will be picked up for an eagle flight. We will be conducting a two day search and destroy mission as part of a battalion minus force. We will be operating by the Cambodian border near the Parrot's Beak. Command is concerned about enemy build-up in the area. We'll lead the assault. Second Platoon will be first in. Lieutenant, the LZ stands a good chance of being hot. It's up to you to report hot or cold as soon as you're down. You think you can handle that?"

"Not a problem as long as the radios work, Sir. I assume I'll be reporting directly to the Colonel on Battalion freq."

"Affirmative. Get it right. It's important."

I refrained from responding further since I wanted to talk with him regarding Simmons. I needed to not use up anything resembling good will, even if it was only minimal tolerance.

"Okay. First Platoon from Alpha Company will land last and move through the troops to take point. We follow Alpha with Second, then Third and First. Any questions? Good! Extra ammo and water is the order of the day. Get your men prepared. Dismissed. Oh! Lieutenant." He grabbed my arm as the others exited the pit.

"Some additional news. They've confirmed the job at Brigade for Sergeant Gilvey. He'll make the transition in ten days."

"That's very good news, Sir. Gilvey has done a superb job and deserves a break. I'm wondering though, if I might discuss another situation with you?

"That would be?"

"Private Simmons, Sir. Please, before you respond let me say what I need to tell you."

Fielder gritted his teeth, but to his credit nodded yes and managed to hiss, "Proceed."

"Well, Sir. It's just that since you assigned him to my platoon, he has done his job and done it well. He doesn't cause trouble, does as he's told, and possesses some real combat talent. The man can shoot and is willing to do his job."

Fielder interrupted with a shout, " Hell! He damn sure wasn't willing to do his job, when he refused a direct order to join troops in the field!" He yelled, "You were there! He's a damned deserter!"

This is going well. What a surprise! Hit him with personnel shortages.

"Sir, I'm not denying what he did. But look, we are always short on personnel. He is capable of being a good soldier, of the kind we need. What I'm saying is simply don't move forward on the court martial as long as he does his job and keeps his nose clean. If he reaches DEROS, drop the proceedings and let him go home, time served. If he screws up, put it to him. That's simple enough."

"Lieutenant, I'm not willing to let him walk from this, just by being on good behavior for a while. He deserves to be tried and do hard time in jail. He's a coward."

Hmm. At least he's not a "black bastard nigger coward. Better he's just the garden variety kind.

"Sir, with all the respect you can imagine, I agree he fucked up. But look, he's trying to make up for a mistake, not for a way of life. And, Sir, sooner or later, we all are going to need absolution from this damn war! Give the guy a break."

Darn, was that a shadow in his eyes? Did I hit a human nerve?

Fielder's face was stone. "No, Lieutenant. I just can't do that." He paused, "But I will let you take your request to the Colonel, and I'll abide by his decision. Fair enough?"

A fucking home run. Hot damn!

"Absolutely fair, Sir. Thank you."

Soggy cornflakes in the dark. Not my favorite start to the day. Oh well! It was very likely going to become a lot worse before it got better. The thrill of being the first one to be shot at on a hot LZ is not on my list of top ten life experiences. Or top one thousand for that matter. That was, however, the job.

We loaded on the choppers at 0615 hours in the pre-dawn darkness. The flight plan called for us to hit the LZ at 0700 with the tropical sun rising at our backs. I sat in the open doorway of the lead chopper, the 80 knot winds whipping around me. I ignored its chill and focused on what my immediate future held.

Simple assignment, check all terrain for 360 degrees, simultaneously searching for any sign of hostility such as some bastard shooting a .50 caliber at my ass. If the LZ is hot, no problem. Relay that info and hope to survive while everybody else goes elsewhere to land and maneuver to assist us. Fat chance!

Tougher if the LZ appears to be cold, broadcast that and be wrong and everybody else gets lit up as they come in. If you survive, the Colonel skins you alive and roasts you for supper. What a choice! If they shoot at us we're ahead. If not, we may all end up dead. Oh hell! It's too early in the day to worry about such shit. Lay back and enjoy the ride. You can pay the piper later.

We approached the LZ using the Bounce and Pounce technique. You come in at about four thousand feet to ten miles out and use a sharp, fast drop to tree top level about three miles short of the LZ. Two miles racing at tree top level at 80 knots or more ends in a spectacular bounce up to fifteen hundred feet and a rapid pounce into the LZ. Surprise! No long looks, just reaction and try to out quick the other guy.

The Bounce and Pounce is popular, if only for the fun roller coaster ride part.

At the peak of the bounce, my head tried to swivel seven hundred and twenty degrees a second to search for all possible enemy positions. As we swooped towards the ground, I found myself standing on the choppers grid with my left hand holding a chair leg and my M-16 on full auto in my right. The chopper's door gunner, seated just behind me, fired his M-60 Machine gun into the brush and trees for suppression, as did his cohorts in trailing choppers. They ceased fire while still twenty feet in the air.

About five feet off the ground I realized that standing on the grid meant I would absorb the full impact of the chopper hitting the ground. Not good! I jumped and felt the grid bounce away from me.

A helicopter's rotors spinning rapidly are the source of its lift. All of the weight of the body of the chopper and its passengers hangs below that lift attached at a relatively small point. The sudden shifting of weight, particularly during landing can throw the chopper into major swinging to and fro. Not good, from the pilot's view point.

My weight transfer rocked the ship, but the pilot handled it. I hit the ground running, I covered thirty meters with two complete pirouettes. Damn! The LZ is cold. Call it in!

I reached out to my R.T.O., who was running to catch up with the microphone extended in his hand.

"This is Delta Mickey Six, the LZ is cold! I repeat the LZ is cold!" I broadcast as firm and loud as I could.

Five seconds passed, "I say again the LZ is cold. The LZ is cold. Delta Mickey Six, over!"

No response. I waved Sergeant Gilvey's R.T.O. over to my position, and sent the LZ cold message again.

"This is Driver Six. What the hell is going on down there! I need a sitrep on the LZ now! Is it hot or cold? Get me a report! Over!"

"Driver Six this is Delta Mickey Six. The LZ is cold! The LZ is cold!" I tried again. "Get that other radio over here!"

"This is Driver Six. I need a report now! What's the status of the LZ?"

"Colonel," someone broke in, "The LZ is cold. They've been broadcasting that. Something's wrong with the radio net."

"What? The LZ is what?"

"Driver Six this is Delta Mickey Six." I tried the second radio. "The LZ is cold. I say again the LZ is cold. Over."

"Damn, Lieutenant! Where have you been? You should have sent that message ages ago. This type of performance won't do," the Colonel sputtered.

Having need of his good graces on the Simmons case, I simply responded, "Roger. The LZ is cold, Sir."

The rest of the choppers rolled in with no problems, and we moved off the LZ in good order with Second Platoon following Alpha Company. The morning proceeded as a basic boonie trek. Hot, tough terrain, keeping alert for Charlie, and appreciating every minute of boredom as a minute of safety. The curiosity of paralleling the Cambodian border coupled with the knowledge that Charlie used that barrier to shelter large numbers of troops stayed constantly in my mind.

What a screwy war! Free fire zones. No fire zones. Border sanctuaries. Tag you're it. Ally ally oxen free. And in the middle, I sit with my men waiting to see whose death Fate will choose today. Damn! I'm getting downright morbid. Think of something else. Hmmm – favorite Playmate? DeDe Lind no contest! August 1967. Five foot two, blond, blue eyed, perfectly proportioned young goddess. Well actually her upper proportions were perfectly abundant, she...

KRACK! KRACK! KRACK!

"Snipers! Cover! Hit the dirt and search the trees!" I yelled. Another great fantasy shot to hell. I stepped next to a nearby tree trunk, leaned against it and scanned about thirty meters up from three o'clock to noon in front of me. Too long an exposure. Time to cover. I knelt down and slipped completely behind the tree.

KRACK!

The round blew away a chunk of bark where my head had just been.

Fucking Charlie! First he interrupts my fantasy of De De, then he tries to blow my head off! Goddam if I ain't taking that personal. Okay—angle of that last round assuming a height of twenty five meters up the tree. Should be out about fifty meters and maybe five meters to the left. Full auto and go to the left, he's still watching where your head was.

Two strides to the left, searching rapidly but calmly—not there, not there, There! Rifle shouldered, lower aim for objects above, goooo!

BRACKITA!ITA ITA ITA!

Halfway through my twenty rounds three or four Brackitas from my men joined the chorus. My last round exited the barrel, and I dove down and left for cover, just ahead of a couple of AK rounds where I had been standing.

"We got yours, Mickey!" Gilvey shouted. "Saw him go down."

"Great, Sarge! Let's get the rest of 'em." Firing up and down the line completed that task almost before I completed the sentence. The sudden silence was tense and eerie, as always.

Shortly, a couple of calls for medics, demonstrated that Charlie had tagged a few of us. A quick check revealed that Second Platoon had no casualties. I radioed a sitrep on that to the Captain, and Gilvey and I checked the positioning of the men. "Fresh magazines for everyone." I cautioned. "Charlie ain't hardly finished dancing today."

Gilvey and I moved together to gather an assessment of our situation. "I don't have the sense this was a planned 'bush. Any thoughts?" I ventured.

"Right, Mickey. Too few of them to take us on like that. Don't seem very smart," Gilvey contributed. "What I think is that they're outposts for a major base camp. That many of them sitting out here waiting for us and willing to sacrifice themselves to warn their buddies—well, I suspect the indians outnumber the cowboys. 'Cause boys, I believe we are in 'indian country' for real!"

"Yeah," I sighed. "And they're not as inept as my Cleveland Indians. Okay. Keep the guys focused and we'll wait for the Brass to figure out what they want us to do next."

Strangely, it only took the Brass an hour to come to the same conclusion Gilvey had offered, although they simply said respective numbers were uncertain but the enemy might have an edge. Of course, we could figure that out for certain in the near future since we were going to stroll over and say "Howdy!" Reconnaissance in force was the official title for the day.

The really jolly news was that we would move towards the enemy in two columns and Second Platoon would take point for the left column. An accident of positioning? Or a dictate of fate? You decide. I was too busy trying to figure out how to protect my men.

In all that I had learned and come to understand about combat, the only helpful thought was to be aggressive and keep moving when the funky brown stuff hit the rotating oscillator, as it was apparently bound to do this day.

I passed the word. "When it starts, move forward fast and hard. Don't stop. Remember the golden rule—Do unto others—First!"

We moved forward quickly. Charlie knew we were here and we were coming. It would be up to him to take us on straight or fade away. I didn't really think fading was in the cards, although I would fade my whole platoon away in an instant if I had a way.

I was right.

Sometimes I hate being right. I had moved with my forward element and could almost sense the line of demarcation where Charlie would start the dance. I called Michael's squad up on line. Hell opened for business.

BOOM! KRACKITA! BRACKITA! BOOM!

The macabre rhythm of a full scale battle exploded into the air. I yelled "Take 'em guys!" and gave up any idea of command. This would be a slug fest.

We surged forward – five-to-six meters and it was all a world of shoot, duck and survive. Rhyme took reason and danced out of the room. I fired left...

BRACKITA!

Right...

BRACKITA!

Left again...

BRACK—

Shit! Empty! Need a clip now! I yanked the empty magazine out and reached for a replacement. Fifteen meters in front of me a VC stepped from behind a tree, saw me and pivoted to gun me down.

No time to reload. I yanked my knife from its sheath on the gun barrel with my left hand, flipped it in the air, grabbed the blade, and pulled back my arm to throw. No prayer! Maybe I can make him miss – my arm moved forward, his AK seated into his shoulder, Oh Shit! His chest erupted into volcanic spurts of red as twenty rounds of M-16 literally ripped him apart.

I turned to identify my savior. Simmons slapped a fresh magazine into his weapon, looked straight into my eyes, grinned and returned to fighting. A white man just had his life saved because a black man blew away a brown man and none of us gives a shit about skin color. Yet racism goes on—Enough philosophy! Load and fight, fool!

I reloaded and fired at the small brown men! We fought for the next hour. My platoon pushed them back slowly through the acrid smoke of the fighting and still progressed further and faster than everyone else. We hit a lull in the battle and my R.T.O. handed me the radio, "It's the Colonel."

"Time to pull back, Mickey, I think you've fought your way into Cambodia. We don't want to cause an international scandal."

"Well, Sir. I didn't notice a dotted line on the ground, but I'll gladly pull back. We're nearly out of ammo anyway. I hope Charlie will let us disengage, but we're moving back now."

Charlie must have been as weary as us. He let us back off.

The Colonel apparently realized how badly we were outnumbered. We headed for an LZ about a klick away. Charlie got a pursuit organized, but our fast advance to the rear and the good fortune of having enough choppers to haul us all out allowed us to lift off and vamoose with only a few stray rounds flipping by.

The day had cost fifteen KIA and almost fifty wounded. Miraculously, I had no KIA and only two wounded, neither serious. Just another game of tag? Indescribable insanity and we walk away with our lives for no visible reason. Strangely, we assume this is how it should be. God, you and I need to have a serious discussion.

The choppers floated down. Ah! Don't mean nothin'. We'll talk another time.

****

Chapter 12 ~ Who's Ambushing Whom?

That night John Hall joined Gilvey and me to observe the Pom Pom Gun fire its mission for the evening. Fireworks not aimed at your own butt; that's always fun.

"Hey, Mickey," Hall slapped me on the back, "I hear Simmons saved your ass out there. He must think you're sweet."

"Nah," I made a throwing motion with my left arm. "He doesn't want me to be a hero taking out Charlie at fifteen meters with a left handed knife throw. Sheesh man, my ass was toast for sure!"

"Burnt toast!" Gilvey chimed in. "What the hell were you thinking anyway?"

"Thinking? Thought had nothin' to do with nothin'. My sixteen was empty and I had an infantile hope that throwing something at him might screw up his aim. Of course, my Dad always referred to my throwing as 'Ol scatter arm' and that was right handed. If I'd been fifteen feet away with a righty throw, I'd give myself a chance in ten of nailing him and three in ten of making him duck. Fifteen meters and lefty! Get out of here, baby! The party was over and I was garbage. Whoa!"

"So the aforementioned Simmons?" Hall raised an eyebrow.

"A strange case indeed. Gets scared by people lipping off and fights in combat like an ice blooded lunatic. Good at it, very good. I told him if he stayed straight and soldiered for me, I'd try to help him out. He's certainly done that. I've got an appointment with the Colonel in the morning. We'll see what happens from there."

Hall shook his head, "Well whatever you do for him, it would seem he has already paid in advance, while you don't even seem phased by your close call."

"John, you know me. I never worry about the bullet that misses me." I grinned. "Of course, on one like that I don't want anyone checking if I need to change underwear, which I ain't wearing anyway."

"Enough obscene underwear talk," Gilvey butted in. "I understand these double cannons put on quite a show. Hey! There's Major Dinwoodie. They're his toys. Let's find out what he's doing with them tonight."

"Evening, Major" I saluted. "We're all wondering how your gun stacks up against other ordnance. Care to fill us in?"

The Major was about five foot nine and maybe a hundred and forty pounds if wet enough. He sported a red, bristly moustache and modeled himself along the lines of a British Officer.

"Very well then, chaps. Listen up, and I'll give the short version designed to match the attention span of the infantry."

We laughed. He jumped into the lesson, "The 40MM M42 is a well seasoned weapon, having earned its stripes in the Big War as an anti-aircraft weapon. Here in Viet Nam its very reputation keeps the sky clear of enemy aircraft."

The laughter was genuine.

"Not having planes to shoot at, the mission of the M42 has been altered to use its 40MM cannon for interdictory fire. That is, shooting into areas with no warning, hopefully catching the enemy by surprise and hitting him directly or, at least, causing him to reconsider the evening's plans. Tonight we have three missions of one hundred rounds each on three different lines. The weapon's trajectory is flat, and the 40MM shell is larger than anything the infantry carries except the 81MM mortars."

"Hell, Major," I threw in, "we do our best not to carry them."

"Quite right, Lieutenant!" the Major chuckled. "Well then, on to our first fire mission. We shall begin promptly in eight minutes."

The show was worth the wait.

POM! POM! POM! POM!

Thunderbolts streaked across the landscape, at spots, not much more than a meter above ground.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

The explosions, even at distance, got your attention. If Charles was in the area, he would know we cared. The cannons were slow compared to more modern weapons. I estimated their rate of fire at only three hundred rounds per minute. Not antiques, a bit old, but serviceable. I was glad we had them backing us.

In the morning I bummed a ride on "Tennessee Thunder", an M60 Main battle tank commanded by Captain Jimmie Tucker of Jamestown, Tennessee, the stomping grounds of an earlier war hero – Sergeant Alvin York, who pretty much won WWI by himself. The good Captain dropped me at the Battalion NDP at 0930.

"We'll roll by in a couple of hours and give you a ride back," Captain Jimmie grinned. "That's if the Colonel doesn't chew you up and spit you into the waste dump."

"Thanks, Cap'. I enjoyed the ride." I grinned back. "Anyway the Colonel might find me a bit distasteful to chew."

I headed towards the HQ with a few tons less confidence inside me than I had just displayed. Right! You've got the Colonel shivering in his boots 'cause he's gotta face the one and only Mickey 6. Small word of advice, give up early. No sense being masochistic and making the beating worse.

The Colonel returned my salute, "At ease, Lieutenant. Take a seat. I don't have lots of time so let's get to it. I've reviewed the Simmons situation with Captain Fielder and I believe I agree with him that the man should stand court martial for disobeying a direct order to join troops in the field. To me that's desertion. What do you have to say?"

Having reviewed it a hundred times in my head, I responded, "Sir, I can only repeat what I told the Captain. The man made a mistake. I won't attempt to justify what he did. But he's trying to make up for a mistake made in fear, not a lifetime of evil. He's a good combat soldier. The type we need, with three confirmed enemy KIA in the last week alone. He's keeping his nose clean, and I—"

"That's all to the good, but it doesn't wipe the slate." The Colonel interrupted. "Desertion is heavy stuff, Lieutenant!"

"I absolutely agree, Sir. But I'm not asking you to give him a clean slate."

"What then? How do you think this should be handled?"

"I propose a simple solution, Sir. He has just under two months to his DEROS. If he soldiers on and does his job until then, let him go home. If he screws up at any time, convene the court and put it to him as hard as you want."

"I don't know, Lieutenant. You ask a lot more than you think." The Colonel paused, scratched behind his left ear, sniffed, and spit. "You did a good job on this last mission and, aside from being a smartass, you generally handle your platoon well. I believe what you say about Simmons. And yes, I've already heard about a certain smartass Lieutenant being saved from embarrassing himself with a poor knife throw. Okay. We'll try it your way."

"Thank you, Sir, very much. I mean truly, thank you."

"Okay, Lieutenant. Okay. Dismissed."

I saluted and floated out to search for "Tennessee Thunder."

"Still standing?" Captain Jimmie mused. "And hardly bloodied it seems. What tale have you valiant warrior person?"

"More tail than I expected to be left with, Cap'. That's for damn sure!" I grabbed Jimmie's offered hand and he helped me mount the tank. "The Colonel was pleasant and reasonable. Downright pleasant. Scary reasonable! I'd worry about it, but I'm too pleased with his agreeing with my proposal on Simmons."

"Ahhh! A successful morning then? Good. Care for a brew on the way back to your NDP?" Jimmie waved his hand at the cooler his men were lowering into the hatch.

"Well, a celebration would be in order. Thanks, Cap'." I opened and sipped on the Heineken as "Tennessee Thunder" rolled out the gate. Beer tastes good to me only in very hot weather, when I'm already feeling good. That may have been the best beer ever.

Thirty minutes later I dismounted at my NDP. "Thanks for the ride and the company Cap'. See you around the countryside."

"Right, Mickey. Keep ducking and dodging and try not to wear out your boot leather. Hey!" "Thunder" turned and Captain Jimmie and crew were on their way. I headed for the compound.

I spotted Simmons in the chow line, intercepted him and took him aside for a moment. He looked at me, the question of his future flashing behind his eyes. I beamed, "Jesus loves the little children. The Colonel says keep it clean and straight and go home."

"Damn, Sir! Oh damn! Thank you so much—"

"Okay. Don't get weepy on me. Just keep it cool and slide on home, man."

Collins joined us for lunch and was overjoyed at the news. "I really never thought you could get that kind of result, Mickey. It's fantastic!"

"Yeah. I just hope it holds up. It seemed to come way too easy."

"You don't trust the Colonel?" Simmons stammered.

"Be cool, man. I've no reason to doubt what he said. It just seems it ought to have been harder. Let's play the cards as they're dealt." I doubt any of us tasted the meal.

Post-lunch I accepted John Hall's invitation to play hearts with him and some of his crew. Hearts is a silly card game with a tenth of the strategy involved in pinochle, my family's game. You would think I could play it better. A rather arrogant, unclean, probably lice-ridden, certainly foul-smelling, lout of a Spec. 4 named Jake O'Connell kept putting it to me every hand. With a game played to 500 points, he had me out before anyone else cleared 350. Asshole!

Of course, I was in such a good mood, none of that mattered even after I lost the third straight game. We gave it up around 1500 hours when Captain Fielder returned.

We joined him in the pit. His assignments were not a surprise. Second and Third Platoons drew perimeter duty. First Platoon was assigned ambush at our favorite site. Arguing over it seemed pointless. We moved out to prepare our people.

As we parted Hall said, "Son of a bitch won't be happy until somebody's dead."

I nodded, "Yeah, but I think I'm higher on his list than you, so keep cool and keep your guys straight. See you in the A.M."

Forty minutes after First Platoon pulled away from the NDP, the explosions and all the other chaotic noise of an ambush crashed our hearing. We raced over to the M42 for the best view of the distant scene. We couldn't make out details so we listened to radio traffic to decipher what was happening.

It came clear all too soon. First had been hit by a set ambush, but the tank support made Charlie nervous, so he triggered early and pulled out fast. In bringing the troops back to the cover and support of the tanks, one man had been lost to 'friendly fire'. He stood up thirty meters in front of one of the .50 caliber machine guns just as the gunner opened up. Four rounds in his back—dead before he hit the ground. We waited to learn who—O'Connell, Jake.

Oh God! That can't be right. I was just playing cards with him. Hearts for God's sake. You can't play cards with me one minute and go off and get killed foolishly the next. That can't be allowed. Damn! Poor dumb bastard. Shit, Hall is going to be devastated. I've got to help him. I just don't—How do I help? I mean what do I do? P.S.C. give me a clue.

Just be there, Mickey. You can do no more. You must do no less.

Right. Yeah. Be there. Oh, God, you let this happen. You better give me the fucking strength to help John.

Even with armor support, the withdrawal and return to the NDP was slow. It was nearly midnight before the First made it in. I watched John slip off a tank at the gate and trudge up the hill, head down and shoulders slumped under an unbearable weight. I intercepted him a few feet before the path to the pit.

"Hey, man..." I shrugged. "Bad night, but—anyway, I'm with you."

John stared at me for a moment without any sign of recognition. He gave a wan smile, "Right. I need to report." He motioned towards the pit.

"Okay," I said. "Be here when you're done."

He went in to see Fielder. I found a seat on some sandbags and sat down to wait. Over an hour passed before John finally emerged. I went to him and put an arm around his shoulders. "C'mon man. We'll get you settled, figure out how to deal with this."

"Ain't no way to deal with it," in the saddest voice. "No way at all."

"Yeah, I know," I agreed and steered him towards my bunker. Gilvey was exiting as we entered the bunker. He handed me a bottle, "This might help," he said. I looked at the bottle—Jack Daniels—Where the hell did he get that? Damn sergeants run the fucking army.

I poured a healthy ration for John and a smaller for myself. I sipped a bit. John did the same and then took a couple of healthy swallows. His body shook and tears began to flow. He muttered, "I don't know. I should have—Maybe it would've —"

"John, later for would've, could've, should've. It wasn't your fault; it's just your responsibility. I'm with you. We'll make it through. Another drink."

We spent a couple of hours killing that bottle of Jack, with me feeding John more than twice what I drank. Finally, he drifted off into half passed out half sleep. I let him be and sat next to him. The next morning he jerked awake, looked around like a deer startled in the headlights. He fixed his eyes filled with pain and horror on me.

"John...," I started.

He raised his hand to stop me. "'S okay." He looked around, turned back to me and nodded. "Later. 'Scuse me." He got up, exited the bunker, and returned to his platoon. We were never to have "Later" to talk about it.

The next morning Second Platoon was given a patrol. The trek was hot, dusty and quiet. We made it back at the NDP at mid-afternoon. Hall had left with Fielder to report to the Colonel at Battalion HQ. I had Gilvey settle the men in to rest up for the evening's mission; whatever it might be.

Fielder returned without Hall as supper was being served and called me to the pit.

"Sir, how is Lt. Hall doing? I—"

"He'll be fine, Lieutenant. Casualties happen; you and he better get used to it. You've both been very lucky so far."

"With all respect, Sir, I don't think I care to get used to the idea of men dying under my command."

"Well, I don't mean like the idea, but you better be prepared to handle the inevitable and keep functioning. Anyway, your platoon has ambush tonight. Leave right after supper."

"Ummm, what site, Sir?"

"The usual, Lieutenant, the usual."

Even having felt it coming in my gut the shock was real. "Tell me you're joking. We're not riding APCs and tanks out the same route to the same site and begging for the same fucking result. Tell me we're not that stupid. Please."

"Oh, you're not riding out, Lieutenant. You're walking. We figure you can go straight across the rice paddies and Charlie won't hear you coming or see you, if he's watching the old route.

Incredulous, I stared at this pompous military buffoon. "No. We'll just be walking completely in the open for a couple thousand meters, without any armor support, to the exact same death trap that has already claimed a life and several other casualties. Do you understand how idiotic that is—Sir?"

"That will be quite enough. You have your orders. Are you refusing to carry them out?" Fielder gave a weird, sick smile. "Besides, I'll see if I can arrange for armor to pick you up in the morning."

Pick up what's left of us. I thought. "No, Sir. I always follow my orders. You know that."

"Dismissed."

I didn't let the protests from platoon members get very far. There simply wasn't time. Thirty minutes after leaving the Captain, I led them out the gate towards the rice paddy. The phrase "Straight across the rice paddy" is a misnomer. The truth is more "Zig zag across the rice paddy, back and forth with no cover and no place to hide your ass – a fucking completely exposed target."

We walked the walls of each section of the paddy, coursing back and forth and trying to find the fastest path. The walls were eighteen inches to ten feet in width, with most in the three or four feet range. If you stepped off a wall the water could be as much as two feet deep, although it was usually less. The base under the water was deep thick mud waiting to do what 'Nam does. Suck you down!

If any shooting started, you either stayed on the wall exposed and returned fire, or used the wall as cover and risked drowning as well as being shot. We were shooting gallery ducks with no place to hide. All of this contributed to a hurried pace to get through the exposure frustrated by the constant back and forth weaving necessary to get across.

It seemed particularly absurd to hurry across such dangerous terrain only to reach a place of recent American death. It was my job, so I led my men. Like any Judas Goat.

Someone watched over us. We crossed the paddy and reached the ambush site without incident. Even more macabre, I found no visible evidence of yesterday's tragedy.

We entered the site in the last bit of dusk, set up quickly as the old hands we were, and settled in for the night. 0200 – we had movement three hundred meters out parallel to the river. I called in support fire from the 81MM Mortars. They responded and radioed, "Shot fired. Shot fired. Shot Fired. Shot fired. We waited the few seconds of eternity for the explosions...

WHAM!

On target...

WHAM!

Whoa! Way off...

WHAM!

On target again...

WHAM!

In the next damn county!

"Mickey Six, Mickey Six, How's our aim? Over." Oscar Six radioed.

"Hey Six, one and three were right on target. Over"

"Roger. One and three were good. What about two and four?"

"Well, you know that friendly ville across the river?"

"Roger. The pacified village."

"Well, the son of a bitch ain't friendly or pacified no more. You assholes dropped two eighty-one mike mikes on their heads. Blew one hootch all too hell from what we can see. What the fuck are you doing?"

"Ummm. Roger. We'll check that out and get back to you. Do you need any further fire support at this time?"

"Hell no! Not while you're firing like a blind ass drunk! Out!"

Fifteen minutes passed and Oscar Six called, "Mickey, my boys got lazy and didn't level the mortars after every round. That's what caused the misdirection. Sorry."

"Misdirection! You better re-direct their young asses before they ever fire another round for me."

"Ummm. Right. I've taken care of it. Sorry again. Out."

Miserable heavy weapons platoon. Sits on their ass all day doing nothing and gets lazy on the few minutes they actually have to work. They're as bad as REMFs. Ahhh! Don't mean nothin'. Forget it. They missed us.

After the shelling, we spotted no more movement. Following first light, we waited thirty minutes to ensure Charlie wasn't waiting for us to get up and shut down, then prepared to move out. We radioed in and received instructions to rendezvous with the tanks at the road. Half an hour later we called in from the road and were told to wait.

We waited.

We waited some more.

An hour passed. I called Fielder. "Six, Mickey Six, requesting status on our ride."

"Um, Mickey, there'll be no ride today. Repeat no ride. You'll have to hike in."

"What! Are you shitting me?"

"That's enough, Lieutenant. You're to hike back in starting now. That's an order!"

"Yes, Sir. Out!"

Reactions could be anticipated.

"Kill that motherfucker!"

"Give him a grenade enema!"

"Fuck him! Let's walk back to the world!"

I let the men vent while I chewed on my own anger. That asshole. Thirty-six hours ago, men were dying right here and he leaves us stranded with no support. If I make it back I'll kill him myself.

Fat Michael stepped in front of me and spread his arms, "Damn, Mickey, tell me we ain't got to walk back across that rice paddy!"

I stared at him for a moment, then a modest inspiration hit. "Michael, we're gonna have to walk in, but the Captain never mentioned the rice paddy. Get everyone together. We'll set up a road clearing operation and at least walk back on hard ground."

Less than fifteen minutes later we moved out in a column on each side of the road. Within an hour, the sun dissipated what passed for morning coolness, the dust along the road deposited itself in our lungs and on our uniforms, and we were approaching the ville we had previously traveled through on APCs and Tanks.

"Hey, Mickey," my R.T.O. called, "Captain's on the horn and sounds pissed."

"Sooprise! Sooprise!" I took the handset, "Six, Mickey Six, what's up?"

"Lieutenant, I ordered you to start back over an hour ago. Where are you?"

"Six, we started seven minutes after you gave the order. We're about halfway there."

"Half way? Lieutenant, I can't see you anywhere out there."

"Well, that's probably because you're looking out at the rice paddy. We're not there, Sir."

"What! Where the hell are you? What are you up to, Lieutenant?"

I managed to stifle my laughter and with as much innocence in my voice as I could manage, I responded. "Six, we set up a road clearing operation. We are currently just outside the ville and preparing to move through it."

"Who the hell authorized you to do that? I ordered you to come straight back in, and I clearly meant to come across the rice paddy. I'll have your ass for this."

"Sir, with all due respect your exact words were 'to hike back in right now'. You gave no directions as to route, stated or implied. I made a command decision on that, and that is really all there is to it."

"Listen, you smartass Lieutenant, did you give any thought to what might happen if your platoon gets attacked and you have no support because we don't know where you are?"

"Sir, exactly how would this differ from any other time?"

I could almost hear the Captain, miles away, choking on his own bile. I might pay for that last comment but the bastard deserved the hit.

After a lengthy pause, the Captain hissed, "Lieutenant, I'm ordering you to return to the NDP by the fastest possible route and report directly to me. Do you understand?"

"Fastest route, report to you. Roger, Sir. Got it. Out"

The conversation ended as we entered the last hundred yards leading to the ville. I tensed up a bit, concerned by the Captain's words that we might encounter the enemy. I need not have worried. The Villagers were at their most friendly. We took our time, despite the Captain's order for speed. About an hour where thirty minutes would have easily sufficed. It seemed to me that these people would rather be friends than enemies, even though I knew full well they might be ones who would kill me and my men without blinking under different circumstances. I wonder if all wars are this fucked up.

Two hours later we ambled through the gate of the NDP, and I reported to the Captain. "As ordered, Sir."

"Lieutenant, where have you been? I ordered you to come straight to the NDP from the ville. You should have come across the north section of the rice paddy and been here an hour ago."

"Sir, once again, you are incorrect. You said 'fastest route', not straightest. I believe the road was faster than slogging through the boonies and paddies. Anyway, here I am. What do you want?"

"Damn it, Lieutenant! I've had all I'm going to take of you not following orders!"

"Sir, I do follow orders. I complete my missions. I do my job, and I take care of my men as well as I can." I jabbed my finger at him. "You should do the same."

"How dare you! I'm always concerned for my men!"

"Bullshit! You are constantly breaking commitments to them. The failure to pick us up today is only the most recent example. How many times have you promised stand down to them and not delivered—Sir?"

"Lieutenant, that is—absurd." His face reddened and its features distorted remarkably. "Things happen that I don't control. You can't blame me for that."

"The men do, Sir. Just quit trying to boost their morale and inspire them by making promises. Don't mention stand down until you can tell them to get on the trucks and head to town, for God's sake. Is that so hard?"

"Uhh—I don't—never mind that, Lieutenant, I won't have you disobeying orders! Do you hear?" His face went redder than steel fresh out of the forge.

"Yes, Sir. I haven't and I won't, but if you leave me room to interpret I will. In fact, I'm required to do so."

"I want you to obey my orders exactly as given. Damn it!"

"Yes, Sir. I have done so. It is not possible for you to cover all contingencies, and I am required to interpret. That's my damn point."

"Lieutenant! I—Get out of here! Dismissed!"

I saluted and left the red-faced wonder without further debate.

The afternoon's entertainment was listening to the radio calls from Charlie Company. They were on a sweep under the command of Major Butler. He had badgered the Colonel into giving him some command time to spruce up his resume. The calls were a comedy of errors, in part because the men resented his presence, but mainly because he was an incompetent asshole. They stumbled around the boonies without a clue. The only positive being that Charles had not kicked their butt. At supper time even the Colonel had heard enough. He offered a chopper pick-up. The Major's response was that he preferred to "complete the mission." The Colonel let him continue.

An hour later we set up for perimeter duty. Dusk fell off the end of the earth into the total blackness found only on a moonless 'Nam night. Minutes later, Charles took it to Charlie Company in a vicious X ambush, which leaves you nowhere to run. If you fight through a line of attackers to get out of their kill zone, you simply fight your way into the kill zone of another branch of the ambush. Properly done—a deadly work of art.

Charles did it properly. Over twenty men were wounded mortally and otherwise in the first burst. More followed in rapid succession. The carnage continued for an hour while we listened in anguished horror, too far away to help. A chopper evacuation was set up and produced its own abhorrent result. Choppers coming to land at night guided by strobe lights make a wonderfully inviting target. Several were crippled and more men died. One chopper crashed killing all aboard.

It finally ended around midnight. Shortly, the Captain summoned me to the pit. "Charlie Company got chewed up bad. The Colonel wants the area checked out in the morning. Second will have point. Charlie will likely be gone."

"Yeah!" I agreed. "But he will certainly leave us some unpleasant presents."

Fielder nodded agreement. I went to get my platoon ready for what would certainly be booby trap hell. I had Gilvey bring Fat Michael and Collins to my bunker to discuss our plan of attack.

"Gilvey, I need you able to move as needed. We're overdue naming a permanent leader for second squad." I paused and winked at Collins, "You up for the job, soldier?"

Collins grinned, "Yeah, Mickey. I can handle it for you."

"Good! I know you will." I sighed. "We have a great mission to break you in on. The company gets to clean up Butler's bullshit and, sooprise! we get point. Booby traps and other kinds of crap guaranteed."

We all agreed on the need for extreme care in approaching the area and the absolute need to maintain control of our people if a booby trap triggered to keep them from jumping into something as bad or worse. Such as a punji stake, where a scratch could cause a serious infection, impalement could cost a leg, an arm or, even a life.

We talked for an hour, but the only useful item noted was Gilvey's suggestion to keep a close watch on our conscientious objector medic. As Gilvey put it, "Fucking Landham is opposed to killing, but the thought of dying don't seem to bother him. He runs after every wounded G.I. like he's late for an appointment at the local whorehouse."

We agreed to keep an extra close watch on him.

"I'll see if the Captain will give us any extra manpower, but the biggest thing is keeping everyone under control and in place if we do trigger something."

Everyone headed out to brief their men. A moment later Collins stuck his head back in the bunker. "A word, Mickey?"

"Sure." I expected a question on leadership or a word of thanks.

He glanced around to be sure we were apart from others and spoke quietly. "I got word from some of the brothers. The mortars last night—It was the Captain who ordered continued firing without leveling. Man is out to get you. No question about it."

Speechless I was, and nearly mindless. Part of me had not believed an American commander would really try to kill one of his people. My innocence died on the spear of those simple words—Man is out to get you.

I nodded. "Thanks for the heads up. Guess you should be careful about standing close to me."

"Hey, man, told ya, we got your back. Besides, it don't mean nothin'." He grinned.

"Don't mean nothin' at all," I agreed. "See you at oh fucking early AM."

"Gilvey, you're gonna love this!" I slapped him on the shoulder and we both moved towards our platoon. "The Captain granted my request for additional support."

"Really?" the look of skepticism was both precious and wise.

"Yeah, we get two—Are you ready? Two ARVNs."

"Hmmph!" He spread his arms, "Think we could trade them for one REMF—Maybe a blind REMF?"

"No such luck. What the hell. Put them on the flanks. If they get blown to smithereens, it won't be a major loss. Let's get them on the choppers."

Minutes later we were in the air headed for a drop about a klick away from the deadly ambush site.

We came in last and immediately moved out through the underbrush. Gilvey set the ARVNs on flank, and Collins squad took point. We walked at a steady, cautious pace. Our expectations were focused on booby traps not enemy contact, but we weren't taking any unnecessary chances. An hour into the day's growing heat the flanker on our left shouted and frantically waved his rifle.

Everyone hit the dirt except Gilvey who raced out to assist the ARVN. After a few moments of animated discussion with the soldier, he threw up his hands in disgust and headed back to the main force. Halfway to us he shouted, "The son of a bitch has found some parachute remnants and wanted us to stop so he could pick them up and pack them. The bastard!"

I heartily agreed, but simply motioned Collins to move out. I figured I'd leave the idiot behind. ARVN soldiers frequently were more interested in plunder than fighting. They figured this was their home and they would be here long after we were gone, so they'd let us fight while they scrounged for survival.

My strategy worked for several minutes, but the fool ran and caught up to us dragging half the chute with him. We marched on.

Shortly, Collins raised his hand halting the column. I moved next to him, followed his pointing hand and reached back to my R.T.O. for the radio.

"Six, I have a visual of the ambush site. The base of the 'T' shaped gully is straight ahead. Recommend I take Second in slow and careful while you hold the rest of the company at my current location."

As I expected, Fielder consented faster than a two dollar whore offered twenty. I set Collins squad in a skirmish line and told Gilvey to bring Fat Michael's squad behind in an offset trail position. I moved with the second squad into the ambush area. The two ARVNs managed to remain behind with the rest of the company. We did not miss them.

"Keep your spacing," I reminded my men. "Watch for traps and don't step where you don't have to." Wonderfully specious advice, Dummy.

We advanced slowly, moving up the left side of the base of the "T." The ground rose so when we reached the edge I was about three meters above the bottom of the gully, thirty meters up the 'T', with Collins' squad stretched out to my left rear and Fat Michael's squad at the base of the 'T'. I stopped and stared.

"Everybody hold where you are," I shouted! I radioed the Captain. "Six, the gully has the biggest damn tunnel entrance I've ever seen, in the opposite side."

"What are you saying, Lieutenant? How big is it?"

Actually about the size of your ego. "Sir, it's bigger than a fucking elephant's ass! Must be seven feet wide and six feet high. You could drive a jeep into it with room to spare. Wait ten, I'm going to go check it out,"

I moved a few feet along the edge looking for a good way down the side. I spotted a trail suitable for a mountain goat, about eight inches wide at a sixty degree angle. It seemed better than jumping down three meters so I started down it. I reminded myself, Be smart! Look carefully for booby traps. About one meter down the trail passed between two saplings. Excellent spot for a wired grenade. Need to check that out...

KA-WHOOM!

Grenade! On the flank. Shit! Stop the medic!

I pivoted on that tiny trail. Two quick strides carried me out of the gully. Three more strides and a flying tackle brought Landham crashing to the ground. I rolled over and sat on his back.

"Hold it where you are, Landham," I shouted in his ear. "I don't need a medic blown to smithereens. We'll go get him."

Landham tried to get up, realized I wouldn't let him and, after a moment nodded his head. "Okay, Mickey."

I immediately got off his back and stood up. Gilvey came to my side as I looked over what we had. A small amount of debris still floated in the air.

"Who was on flank," I asked?

"Private Johnson," Collins answered. "I'll go get him."

"Stay where you are and keep your people alert for any company." I turned to Gilvey. "Any ideas other than we walk over and pick him up?"

He grinned. "Nope. "

"Well, twenty meters of waist high brush to wade through, filled with all sorts of unpleasantness." I turned to Gilvey, "Follow me five meters back, If we reach him we'll pick him up and walk him back on the same path." I turned back to the flank and yelled, "Johnson, we're coming to get you. Lie still and hold on."

Fear battled duty. Don't be a fool! No other way. You're gonna die! Don't step anywhere you don't have to. For that matter don't step where you have to, Dummy. Duty won. I moved forward like I meant it. Having no choice can make you feel and seem brave. Hell, I can't die or get hurt.

P.S.C. responded instantly, That's insane! Don't start believing your publicity or you will die here.

Insane? Heroic? Stupid? All the same. Got to go get my boy.

I pushed through the underbrush and reached Johnson. He looked up. His pain was evident, but his eyes held no fear. "Got my legs, Mickey, but I'm okay."

I looked at his severely shredded pants legs, painted red with blood and lied. "That you are troop. Sarge and I are gonna carry you over to aid, and get you dusted off. Can you handle that?"

"Sure, Mickey. It don't mean nothin'."

Gilvey took his shoulders. I grabbed hold of his legs as gently as I could. My grip was tentative at first. Blood covered my hands and I was unsure if I was directly contacting a wound or being washed in red from injuries higher up the leg. I gripped tighter and we lifted him. He gritted his teeth, groaned and turned very pale. We carried him back following the path we had taken to reach him. Each step brought a grimace and grunt from Johnson and a mental arrgh from me. Every twig under my boots felt to my mind like a trigger wire. Twenty meters—twenty miles. Twenty minutes—twenty hours.

We reached Landham and gently lowered Johnson to the ground. The medic took over. I put an arm on Gilvey's shoulder and stepped away from the group with him. "Good work, Sarge. Many thanks. Glad you were so cool."

"Cool? Mickey, you don't want to check the condition of the underwear I ain't wearing. Trust me," he gasped.

"Understood. Me too," I grinned. "But the troops think we're tough guys. Let's preserve their delusions."

I called in a report to the Captain and requested a dust-off for Johnson. I checked the position of my troops and passed a firm message to stay in place. Finally, I headed back to the mountain goat trail. I moved down. Stepping slowly, carefully. I reached the saplings. I examined them meticulously. Seeing nothing I stepped between them.

As my foot descended I looked down and—That's a fucking trip wire—Nah, you're imagining things—The hell you say, you're gonna blow yourself up—There is no way! It's just imagination—Fuck! Stop and check it out! I reached down with my hand, grabbed my pants leg and jerked my leg back.

Another check revealed a wire, which was indeed attached to the pin of a grenade. Damn! I'm lucky. Right! One of your men gets blown up to save your sorry butt. Shit!

I gulped and turned back up the trail. I grabbed my radio. "Six, this place is a nightmare. We need some specialized help. Can we get some Tunnel Rats out here?"

To my surprise, Fielder responded, "Okay, Mickey. Back your guys off. I'll see what I can do."

The dust-off came in for Johnson. I turned my back and bent over as the chopper kicked up its basic dust storm coming in. Then again as it lifted off. Landham reported "Million dollar wounds, Mickey. His legs are chewed up enough to get him home, but he'll live through it."

I passed the word on to Fielder.

Another twenty minutes passed. I sipped from my canteen, sweated, and tried to figure a way around completing the search of this area.

"Chopper!" Collins yelled. The chopper touched down and a soldier appeared walking through the dust storm. Massive. Black. Damn!

"M.B.D.! You goddam Traveling Man! What the hell are you doing here?" I shouted with joy at the sight of my friend.

"Hey, Mickey, you crazy sumbitch, you hollered for the T-Rats and here I is, son. The best tunnel cleaner you've ever seen."

"I see," I grinned. "So you discarded the little remaining sanity evident at our last discussion and declared total madness. Is that it?"

"Right on, Brother. I hear you have a fun assignment for me. What's cooking?"

I gave M.B.D. a quick rundown and took him to the trail. I pointed out the booby trapped grenade and motioned at the tunnel entrance. "Thar she blows, Ahab. What's your pleasure?"

"Well, let's you and I slide down this section of gully wall that has no shrubbery and you follow me to cover my back."

"Okay by me. I'll follow you right up to that tunnel entrance and happily wait there for you."

"Mickey, where's your spirit of adventure?"

"Got it filed safely in my 'Don't be stupid' file, M.B.D. Don't even think about it. I ain't going in that tunnel." I paused, "Gilvey, platoon is yours 'til we get back. Keep 'em in place. After you, monsieur T-Rat."

He went over the side, and I followed. At the bottom I allowed a three meter head start and followed his footsteps as closely as I could while watching in all directions at the same time. We reached the opposite wall about three meters from the entrance.

M.B.D. raised his hand calling a halt. He turned, his face grim, "Wait here. I'll be back." He got down on his stomach and slowly low crawled to the entrance. He took out a flashlight and checked all around the opening. After a few minutes he crawled into the tunnel. I settled in to wait.

Time slowed a bit and I waited. With all this practice, you'd think I would be really great on waiting, but noooo.... Time continued a low crawl of its own. I was starting to consider stupid options like going in after him, when he yelled.

"Mickey, coming out. All clear!"

With great relief I yelled, "All clear! Come on out, man."

I expected him to walk out the entrance. Instead he low crawled out and over to me. I looked down. "So, lose leg function or something?"

"Nah," he said rising. Found a booby trapped 106 Recoilless Round and a couple of wired grenades."

"And?" I inquired waving at his low crawl performance.

"Well, Charles left a very unpleasant surprise for any American Soldier dumb enough to walk up to that tunnel and take a look. He caught a bamboo viper and tied him right where some fool G.I. would stick his face. That lethal, little fucker is one pissed off snake. Best advise everyone that the tunnel is off limits. Peepshow there is deadly."

I went completely numb, coughed, and responded with great wit, "Right. Right. Sure, right away." I turned and yelled the message to Gilvey. I turned back to M.B.D. and attempted a cavalier smile.

He laughed raucously. "Damn, Son, you're greener than that fucking snake."

"Yeah," I nodded. "You know, I'm the stupid G.I. who was about to stick his face in there."

"I know," he smirked. "But you're so attractive the little green bastard would probably just have kissed you." We both erupted in laughter.

As mine subsided, I chastised myself: One of my men got blown up and saved my life, twice over. I'm so fucking luckeee. A green snake ... cute litle sucker, like a kid's rubber snake ... joins the grisly, ghastly, ghosts....

M.B.D. lifted out by chopper. We got to finish clearing the area – three booby trapped grenades and a couple of AK-47s – and hike back to the NDP. I sweated a bit more than usual thinking about that snake, but otherwise, a routine mop-up.

"Mickey, they've sundries at the pit." Gilvey grinned, "Your turn to negotiate."

I groaned, "Military genius! We have four platoons, so they provide three boxes of sundries and make us fight over who gets what. Guess it keeps us in a combat mood, huh, Sarge?"

"Right Mickey, here's the list. Pretty standard stuff."

I went to bargain for our share of the sundries – everything from pens and paper to candy and cigarettes. Beats getting shot at. Barely, but definitely beats messing with small green snakes.

I managed to get everything on the list and a fair share of the candy and cigarettes. The squad leaders took care of the distribution. Personally, it always worked out well for me. As a non-smoker I could trade my share of cigarettes for candy. I chewed on a pack of milk caramels, which I particularly enjoyed and thought, Well things ain't too bad—for Hell. I had no idea of what was still to come.

My dad once said, "When the time comes, a man must be willing to shoot his own dog." Dad was right, and I knew it was past time to deal with the drug issue in my platoon. I called everyone together.

"Okay guys, the topic is drugs, illegal drugs. Can't say I advocate or support them. Seems a pretty stupid way to behave to me."

"Hey Mickey, lighten up! It's all good, man!"

"Yeah, have a toke and relax."

The laughter and jeers included enough of the platoon members to present a serious concern. "Look," I continued. "I'm not a fool. I know stuff goes on. However, I am also responsible for all of you guys, so I'm setting a couple of simple guidelines. This is the way it will be. You do illegal drugs in the base camp and get caught, it's on your own ass. I will not raise a finger to help you. If you are stupid enough to use drugs in the field and endanger the safety of this platoon—and I catch you at it—the sentence will be death. Pure and simple, I will—I will fucking blow you away. If you are so stupid you think you can take me—Well, let's get it on! Just make sure you've named your beneficiary."

Silence hung heavy and spoke reams. I felt my point was made.

"Okay, we've got perimeter tonight and an early morning patrol. Michael, you'll have point. It'll be a long walk, so get what rest you can this evening." I waved my hand in dismissal, "We'll assemble at 0730."

Dawn arrived, screened by a modest but steady rain. The darkness from the storm matched our mood as we slipped out the gate and turned south towards some particularly nasty terrain. We moved through scrub brush laced with ditches, gullies, streams and other pleasantries. The rain diminished and finally stopped after a couple of hours. The sun used the wetness to create a steam bath rather than drying us out.

The mosquitoes came out in force. Like most of my platoon, I had stopped taking anti-malaria pills some months earlier. Everyone figured a bout of malaria was a reasonably priced ticket out of the 'Nam. No one gave much thought to the life long consequences of this illness. One troop summed it up, "Periodic, treatable illness suffered over a long life would seem preferable to being permanently dead." That pretty much covered it.

I called a mid-morning halt. We stopped on the edge of a clearing, where I had the platoon spread out to the left and right for security while we rested. I took a couple of swallows of cool clear, and walked down the line to check on my people. Half way down the left side of the line, I came around a shrub brush in time to witness Moore and Thompson exchange a canteen and a small plastic pack filled with weed.

They froze at my sudden appearance. I flipped my selector to automatic and raised my M-16 to waist level.

"Do!"

"Not!"

"Move!"

They did not. Before I could say anything else, Collins stepped next to me and shouldered his weapon pointed directly at Thompson. "You better listen up and do as you're told troop," he snarled.

I stepped over to Moore and held out my left hand. He placed the dope in it. I pocketed the bag and turned to Thompson, my hand out. He stared at me reflecting a mixture of hostility and confusion. I snatched the canteen from his hand, turned it over and emptied it on the ground.

"Sir," his words dripped venom. Moore continued, "Sir. This ain't right, Sir!"

I spun around, shouldered my rifle and aimed it squarely between Moore's eyes at a distance of about eighteen inches. I took a step forward and reduced that distance to four inches. I spoke in a deathly quiet voice, "You got something you want to say?"

He looked in my eyes, saw his doom, gulped and slowly shook his head no.

"I didn't think so." I spoke without changing my position. "Your actions have endangered this platoon. You are now under a sentence of death."

His face twitched and fear filled tears rolled from his eyes. I gave his terror time to firmly grasp his soul. "I am going to hold off on the execution for now. Mainly 'cause I don't want to have to carry your bodies all the way back to the NDP."

I waved the muzzle of my rifle in his face "You will not test me, or I will execute the sentence. Do you understand?"

He managed to nod his head. I turned to Thompson.

"You are under the same sentence, same conditions. Do you understand?"

Unable to speak, he nodded his terror inflamed face.

"Collins, take the firing assembly from their 16s, any grenades or other explosives and any knives. They can walk with your squad."

"Roger, Mickey. You want guards assigned to them?"

"I don't think that's necessary. They know what I'll do if they cause any more trouble."

Collins nodded. I turned back to the center of the platoon and walked the rest of the line calm and steady. Without emotion, I pondered how to handle the situation when we got back.

The long trudge through the bush provided ample time to think. At one point Collins joined me and asked if the brothers could deal with Thompson. "We'll shove a rod so far up his ass, he'll stay straight the rest of his life. Guaranteed!" he spit. I approved. That left Moore.

It bothered me that I had not been able to reach Moore and straighten him out. I had been pretty successful with so many others.

Does it bother you that you had your weapon on full auto four inches from the face of one of your men? P.S.C. piped up.

No, it doesn't. They were warned.

Oh sure. They weren't even doing drugs. They were just trading them.

I know. That's why I didn't kill them.

I knew the direction of these thoughts wouldn't help deal with the situation. I decided Moore needed to become someone else's problem. Who better than John Hall? His leadership style differed from mine, but was equally or more effective.

I talked with John and we agreed to trade problem children. John quickly got approval for the exchange from Fielder. I broke the news to Moore.

"You're being transferred to First Platoon," I informed the surly Private. "I want you to understand that your sentence is not being lifted. If you fool with drugs again I will find you and kill you."

"You can't intimidate me, Sir," Moore blustered.

In the blink of his eye I stepped forward, my face inches from his. In a voice softer than a whisper in the wind, I warned, "That is too bad—'cause it's certain I can kill you—I'd rather intimidate you into behaving—less paperwork—but the choice is yours."

He had no more to say. I dismissed him.

****

Chapter 13 ~ Of Milk Caramels & Other Joys and Sorrows

"Stand right where you are, Lieutenant!" Fielder's arrogant voice poisoned the night breeze.

I stopped, turned my head and, with all the saccharine sweetness I could muster, responded, "Sir?"

"Don't Sir me, Lieutenant. I have reason to believe you are dealing in illegal substances."

"Who—me?"I wittily retorted as Fielder stepped directly in front of me. "Says who?"

"Never mind who," Fielder snarled. "I believe you have drugs in that plastic pouch sticking out of your pocket." His words quieted everyone.

It was almost midnight, less than fourteen hours since I had taken the weed from Moore. I stared blankly at the Captain for a minute. "Sir, with all respect, whatever addictive substance I may have in my pocket is none of your business. I suggest that you not pursue this matter any further. You are likely to be very embarrassed if you do."

"No way! I've got your ass this time," Fielder sneered. "Now give me that pouch!" He reached out and I stepped back.

"Don't get grabby! That could get you hurt." I waved my index finger in his face. "I know you don't want to believe that I'm trying to keep you from looking like a fool. But, for once in your life, listen up and back off!"

"Lieutenant, I order you to give me that pouch from your pocket!" Fielder screeched. "I'll have you before a court martial if you don't obey!"

"Sheesh, you're a grouch, Sir. Okay, but don't ever say I didn't warn you. Here's the addictive substance." I handed the pouch to him.

He snatched it from my hand. "Ahhh!—What in the—What is this? Some kind of heroin cube or something?"

"Why no, Sir, It is a far more addictive substance."

He pulled the small brown cubes from the package, sniffed them and shouted, "Damn you! What the hell is this stuff?"

"Sir, you're holding in your hand a very addictive substance, one of the most addictive substances in the known universe," I smirked. "They are sometimes called nose candy, but are more commonly known as—milk caramels." I struggled hard not to snicker.

Fielder sputtered, "I—I—You dirty!—I—Oh God!"

I sympathized, "Don't worry, Sir. Think of how your reputation will be enhanced as the Great Milk Caramel Crusader!"

His face redder than I had ever seen, Fielder slowly turned and silently slunk away. I sighed. Thank God, for the heads up from Collins. If he hadn't warned me that Moore and some others were setting me up—it would have been a hard swim upstream.

The next day brought an eagle flight and a company sized search and destroy patrol. By noon, the main thing being destroyed was our brains roasting inside our heads from the brutal heat. They claimed it was a mere 118 degrees but I knew it had to be at least 218. Even bringing up the rear and following two platoons did not make pushing through the heavy brush and twelve foot high elephant grass, any easier. Gilvey, on his last patrol with the platoon, moved up the line to sit with me as we took a lunch break. "Hey Sarge, hot enough for you?"

"Nah, Mickey, humidity is a bit heavy though. I prefer to swim in cooler, clearer water."

I laughed.

"Seriously, we're going to lose some people to heat collapse if we keep pushing so fast through this heavy crap." Gilvey grinned. "Is Fielder mad at us or something?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure he's mad at me." I shook my head. "But, I expect he's just working out his frustrations over his career switch to drug enforcement."

"Think he hopes to be a Major Caramel some day?" Gilvey innocently inquired.

"Nah!" I laughed, "Captain Milky Way is the top for him!" We both groaned and cracked up simultaneously over that.

Patrol resumed. I told Gilvey, "Check everyone's water and have Landham distribute salt pills. We'll need them today."

Fielder pushed us on for two more hours before people started to collapse, and we were forced to stop. Everyone was a bit spacey from dehydration. Some in each platoon were in serious trouble. What water we had, we distributed to those most in need. Fielder called for re-supply, then informed us the drop would be in a clearing a klick away.

Although most were too thirsty to comment, a few choice suggestions were made, including, "Let's rip Fielder's arms and legs off and use them for divining rods. Won't work, but I'd feel better."

It took almost two hours to reach the drop point. We were an exhausted, cramping, dry group of soldiers. Gilvey called me. "Doc says Fat Michael is running a fever of 104. He's about done. Others are near as bad."

For once, the re-supply was on time. The water was delivered in plastic tubes, six inches in diameter, four feet long, and ten layers thick. The outer layer was orange to assist finding them if they had to be dropped through trees. It was an intelligent and easy to use delivery system with a couple of extras. Tubes two through nine could be used to pull over and cover the front half of your M-16 and keep it clean. Not withstanding that the plastic was an easy to see white, many grunts were more interested in a cleaner, less likely to jam weapon than being spotted by Charlie. They figured Charlie pretty much knew where we were at any given moment. The real primo item was the red plastic piece used to seal the tubes. It fit perfectly over the muzzle of an M-16 and kept the barrel dry and clean. The little bit of red was negligible in terms of giving away your position and the first round you fired took the plastic neatly away. The tube covers wouldn't prevent firing but had to be removed if more than a few rounds were fired.

We got two tubes for our platoon and distributed a canteen of water to each thirsty soul with a little extra for the worst cases. I got one of the red caps. I moved back down the line to check on Michael.

Doc answered my unspoken question. "He's not real good, Mickey. Should be dusted off, but I think he'll be okay even if we have to walk him in from here."

"We have another problem," Gilvey interjected. "Michael's lost his blooper."

"What!" I exploded. "How in the hell . . ." I bit my tongue, paused and blew the air out of my mouth. Man's got a fever of 104 and we have him pushing though heavy brush. Fucking Fielder! Not surprising he lost his M-79.

I brushed my anger aside and motioned Gilvey over to me. "Thoughts, Sarge?"

"Yeah."

I looked at him hopefully.

"I'm tired. Wish I had some milk caramels."

I sputtered, "You turkey! Damn, I'll miss your keen insights." I paused. "Okay, take care of Michael. Get ready to carry him if needed. I'll see if we can get a dust-off and report the missing item."

"You might wait on that, maybe we can cover—"

"Nah. We'd get hung out for real if we got caught on that. Remember, the boss got no sense of humor."

He had no compassion either. No dust-off and immediate threats of court martial over the lost weapon. Finally, we headed for home. We reached our bus station just before dark. The choppers lifted us off giving us an amazing view of a blazing, orange fireball imploding into a shimmering green lake. Oz would have ended this way if the wicked witch had won. This is Oz, the wicked witch IS winning. No one, least of all me, gave a damn. I would've liked some milk caramels though.

A few hours later I went to Doc's bunker to check on Michael. He appeared more than a little worse for the wear, but Doc assured me he was okay.

"Hey, Mickey." Michael smiled weakly. "Guess I fucked up bad today, huh?"

"No Michael," I smiled back. "I got Fielder to chew on a few milk caramels. Soothed him right down. He's threatening an Article15 to make you pay for the blooper, but that won't stick. No sweat, G.I."

"Mickey, I really let everybody down. I'm sorry."

"Hey, no one died and the only real result is I'll have to wait a couple of weeks before I put you in for Stripes and recommend you for Platoon Sergeant."

Looking at Michael's amazed features. I spoke semi-sternly, "Just be damn sure you don't screw up my plans like this, ever again."

He nodded. "Count on that, man. I'll be there when you need me."

I nodded back, "You always have been. Now get some rest. See you in the morning."

I walked slowly back in the dark to my bunker. Fucking Fielder! Runs us over the edge pushing without enough water and then wants to hang people because they can't keep up when they have a 104 temperature. I suspect our day is coming ever closer.

I sighed.

The tension created by my anticipation of the brown mushy impacting the rotating oscillator was lessened by some of the physical changes that were made to the NDP: a genuine military mess tent so we had shade at meals and an open air, outdoor shower consisting of a five gallon canvas bag hanging from a tripod, joined the piece de resistance – an improved eight seat trench latrine.

I attempted to refresh and relax with a shower the first evening it was available. It worked okay, but you had to lug a can of cold water up the hill from the water truck and five gallons proved to be an all too brief run of cool clear. Basically, it was get wet, turn off the water, soap up, and rinse off. It was kind of neat to stand naked with a view of miles of rice paddies, but ultimately it was more bother than merit.

The latrine, however, was a true work of art, a much appreciated luxury, a testament to superior American engineering, and an inspiration to stir the heart, or other parts, of any patriot. Built on the side of a hill about twenty meters from the barbed wire and forty meters below the bunkers at the top of the hill, it boasted an expansive rice paddy view. The trench was two feet wide, twelve feet long and six feet deep. The seats built for luxurious, lingering comfort, consisted of sand bags set upon metal stakes laid across the two feet high sandbag wall surrounding the hole. Actual rolls of genuine, soft, two-ply toilet tissue, not the crumpled handful of sandpaper from the c-rats, were set on wooden stakes next to each seat. Ancient kings had defecated on no finer thrones.

Around 1700 a grunt from third platoon named Tony Christian took full advantage. He sat on an end seat, a copy of Stars and Stripes in hand, blithely letting nature take its course as he reviewed all the news the U.S. Army found fit to print. Contentment amidst chaos! What a picture. I smiled as I walked by the bunkers above the scene.

WHOOM! WHOOM! WHOOM

"Incoming!"

"Hit the dirt!"

"Mortars!"

"Incoming!"

I dove into the nearest bunker, rolled on the dirt floor, bounced up and leaped for the fire port. A quick look revealed no enemy assault on our side of the NDP, but more rounds were exploding and shrapnel, debris and dust filled the air.

WHOOM! WHOOM!

"Man your firing stations!" I shouted at the men who had filled the bunker. "Get me a radio! We need to check on the rest of the perimeter!" I yelled at Stevens, the Third Platoon R.T.O. One troop staggered against the wall, grunted and then groaned. "The Fucking New Guy crapped his pants!" Stevens snickered and slapped a handset into my hand. I keyed the mike, "This is Mickey Six. The north side of the perimeter appears to be clear of attack. What else have we got out there?"

WHOOM!

Reports rolled over the net. It was soon clear that the mortars had been harassment, not prepping for an assault. "Fucking Charlie! Ruined a good afternoon. Can you believe daylight mortars? Damn!" one grunt cursed.

Choppers were called for a fly over, but we all knew Charlie likely would not be spotted from the air on this one. He might be feisty, but he weren't stupid enough to be caught in the open in daylight.

Gradually, the dust settled, people exited the bunkers, and casualty reports came in, all negative. I stepped out into the open as someone yelled, "Hey! What happened to Tony?" We all stared down at the latrine.

"Tony!"

"You okay?"

"Tony!"

"Hey man, where are you?"

The voices drifted off in the wind and we started down the hill. Suddenly, the head of a dark figure appeared over the edge of the sandbags. A truly dark, chocolate brown figure emerged from the hole.

"Toneee?" Stevens ventured.

The totally chocolate brown figure turned. A brilliant white smile split the creature's face. Tony, covered in chocolate mushy stuff, destined to be pelted with stupid jokes for months to come, sure that the odor would never vacate his nostrils, but alive! Thrilled to be alive! By God! Alive!

It's true. When the shit hits the fan, any port in a storm!

A daylight mortar attack did bring about some other action. Fielder called me to the pit.

"Lieutenant, Intelligence figures Charlie is gearing up to hit this area hard and they want some reconnaissance. You are to take four men with you and recon the sector from our NDP to the southwest and back up to Battalion NDP, then home."

"Sir, you know there has never been any real scientific evidence to actually prove the existence of Military Intelligence. What the hell do they think we'll find?"

"Never mind your sarcasm," Fielder snapped. "Just do what you are ordered to do. Besides I don't think you are sufficiently familiar with the terrain we're operating in. It will be good experience for you."

I knew his idea of a "good experience for me"—to die ugly, painful, and soon. I didn't bother to argue further, but it ticked me off that he kept exposing my men to get me killed. Fortunately, Fielder was too dumb to realize I felt safer with my four best than with a whole company with him in charge.

I picked Collins, Simmons, Zimmer, and my R.T.O. We slipped out the front gate and quickly reached the heavy underbrush. We moved in a jungle route step formation to cover a full 360 degrees: Simmons on point, the immediate front at ground level, Collins on drag, any overhead and forty-five degrees to the right. Third in line, me forty five degrees left, also maintaining compass and direction. R.T.O., back left and Zimmer in the rear, back right. We moved five or six steps at a moderate pace, stopped in place for twenty seconds to listen and observe.

Repeating the process made slow work, but if you wanted to stay alive it was the safest way to move. If Simmons encountered anything suspicious, he would rip off a full magazine at waist or lower level. Collins would take two steps right and hit prone ready to fire, while I did the same to the left. R.T.O. and Zimmer would go four steps to each side and down. Simmons would empty his weapon, pivot and come straight back while we laid down all the fire we could. Five of us could pump a lot of lead real quick.

Everyone in the group was calm and comfortable in the knowledge that a small group had the best chance of remaining undetected and, if detected, we were as mean and nasty a bunch of five warriors as you would ever care to face.

We took few breaks and covered a good amount of territory. We drifted slowly through the heat of the day. We found nothing, of course.

That is, until we came to the tank trail running out of the Battalion NDP. Five meters wide and clear of underbrush, the trail ran through a small grove of trees and across a half mile long, fairly open stretch. We intersected it about two hundred meters from the trees and stopped to observe. My early warning system reacted immediately.

Something's not right!

"What's wrong with this picture?" I whispered. No one immediately responded. In the bush you spoke only if you could improve the silence. We remained still and observed. Finally, Collins spoke softly, "Mickey, there's something hanging in the trees where the trail exits."

I stared for a full minute but couldn't make anything out. "Okay, parallel to the trail, slow and easy, move out. I want a closer look."

Fifty meters down Collins' muted voice stated, "Looks like a damn piece of string hanging in the tree."

Another fifty meters and I quietly confirmed, "Good eyes, man. But why's it there?" We halted.

"Booby trap. Mickey." Zimmer contributed. "Has to be a fucking booby trap!"

"Logical assumption," I agreed. "Probably a gift left lying around, but we need to be careful, in case Charlie is nearby, waiting for it to be opened. I want to maintain a hundred meters distance and circle three sixty. Combat ready, quiet and cool. Let's do it."

Moving with extreme care we completed the circle in just under an hour. We detected no one, so we moved toward the string in the tree. Thirty meters out we stopped, and I set a three man perimeter. My R.T.O. and I moved carefully to the tree, wary of the potential booby traps Charlie was fond of leaving around.

We reached the tree without incident. The string stretched over twenty meters across the trail to another tree. It hung a bit more than two meters high. Low enough to catch on a tank's main gun or turret. A brief inspection revealed a booby trap. No, an extraordinary booby trap. Mr. Charles had outdone himself on this one.

The string was attached to the pin of a smoke grenade fuse, which had been inserted into the nose of a 105MM round. About five inches thick and over a foot long, it contained a massive amount of explosive designed to wreak havoc on personnel within thirty meters. Apparently, our side had fired the round and it had not exploded. Charles took the projectile home, placed it between his legs, and calmly drilled a hole into the fuse. He then inserted the grenade fuse, sealed it with some pitch, carted it to the tree and set up his trap. If triggered by a passing tank, it would kill or seriously injure any riders exposed on top of the tank and would not do the vehicle itself much good.

Gutsy little bastards! I called in a report to the Captain. "Yeah a 105 round booby trapped with a smoke grenade fuse and string. We'll blow it in place. You'll be able to see the explosion from your location."

I checked for any other traps, then climbed up to the 105 round. I cut the string, yanked it free from the other tree and used it to tie a hand grenade in place over the round. The spoon was free to fly off. I tied a length of string to the hand grenade pin. The plan was to pull the pin with the string from the ground, run about thirty meters and take cover with the others in a gully. In theory, I'd have four seconds to cover the distance.

Theory: the belief that everything will work properly and all will be okay with the world. Again and again, reality teaches that theory is a wonderful way to screw yourself.

I stood on the ground, string firmly in hand and reviewed the dynamics of theory vs reality. I had run a hundred yard dash in high school in 10.4 seconds. Covering about thirty yards in under four seconds should be no problem. In theory.

I swallowed, found my throat a bit dry, tightened my grip and my R.T.O. shouted. "Hold it, Mickey! Fielder wants to talk to you."

Normally, talking to Fielder was a pain. Somehow, this seemed an exception. He managed to make even a reprieve a bother.

"Have you blown that booby trap yet?"

"Have you heard and seen an explosion yet?"

"Always with you it's sarcasm. Can't you just give a straight answer for once?"

"Yeah! But what fun would that be?—Sorry, Sir, no we have not blown it yet."

"Well don't." The exasperation in Fielder's voice was very satisfying. "They're sending a demolition team out to look at it. Set up a defensive perimeter and get smoke ready to bring in his chopper."

I didn't bother to point out to Captain Idiot that a five man defensive perimeter was a bit on the small side for protecting a landing area for a Huey. I just spread the guys out a bit and told them to shoot a little and run like hell if Charlie attacked.

The chopper was overhead in five minutes. I popped a red smoke. He ID'd it and touched down quickly. A Staff Sergeant jumped off and the pilot took her out twice as fast as he came in.

"Asshole chopper jockey!" I coughed. "He didn't have to kick up so much dust just because he doesn't care to be shot at. Hey, Sarge! You must be our demolition guy."

"Roger, Sir. Sergeant Evans at your service. Where's the device located?"

"Like a little birdie, it's up in the tree." I pointed. 'C'mon, I'll show you." I had the men stay in their "defensive perimeter." Good a place as any to wait. As we walked to the tree I explained how I had rigged it to blow.

"Probably would have done the job, Sir." Evans paused. "And you probably would have made it to the gully in time—probably."

"In theory, Sarge. In theory."

He climbed the tree. I waited on the ground. Following several minutes of scrutiny, he calmly reached out and unscrewed the smoke grenade fuse. Once he had removed it, he looked down at me, grinned and said, "Glad that worked okay."

"Me—I also." I managed with what I hoped would pass for a smile.

He worked a few more minutes. "Handle this carefully, please," and he handed the 105 round down to me.

I found my hands suddenly coated with sweat, but gripped it well and stood holding it while Evans climbed down.

"If you don't mind hanging on to it a little longer, Sir, I need to take a picture for our records." He reached into his backpack and produced a Polaroid Camera.

"Sure, Sarge. No problem. How about an extra shot for my girl?"

"Happy to oblige, Sir." He took two, gingerly removed the 105 round from my grip and handed one photo to me.

Vanessa ought to get a kick out of this. I thought. Her favorite G.I.—Well I could always hope—grungy, grimy, sweating like a hog, holding a live 105 round and grinning like the proverbial canary fed Cheshire Cat.

We headed in to the NDP with Evans following behind me; the 105 round firmly—I hoped—in his possession. We were half way home when Fielder called.

"What is your current position?"

"We'll be at the gate in thirty minutes, Sir."

"Damn it! That's not what I asked you, Lieutenant. What is your position?"

"Well, Sir. If you will stand at your command post and look directly towards the Battalion NDP, you will find us about eight hundred meters out directly on that line. I'll wave to you."

I raised my arm and waved. One finger was extended a bit more than the others.

"Roger. I see you. Can you set a perimeter there for a chopper?"

"What the hell for? We'll be home in a few minutes."

"Damn it, Lieutenant. Just answer the question. The General's Chopper is in the air. They want to pick up the demolition man and the booby trap."

"Yes, Sir. You know how many men I have with me. We can most certainly set an adequate perimeter to safely land a helicopter, Sir."

"Just do it, Lieutenant. Out."

Collins winked at me. "Same directions as with the first Chopper, Mickey?"

"Hell no! If Charlie lights them up, let's help shoot him down. Maybe Charles will appreciate our cooperation and make nice with us."

After a brief wait, the chopper arrived. I popped a smoke. The pilot called, "Yellow smoke. I identify yellow smoke. Is the LZ clear?"

"Why, of course." I answered sweetly. "C'mon in. The water's fine."

The Huey covered with chrome and sporting two General's Stars – a Number One target for Charlie – touched gently down. Evans rushed out to board. He got one foot up on the chopper's floor when an argument started. The pilot leaned back from his seat, shaking his head and gesturing with his arm. Evans withdrew his foot and stood with one arm cradling the explosive and the other waving wildly.

This went on for a few minutes and Captain Idiot called. "What's going on out there? Why isn't that helicopter getting airborne?"

"Don't know for sure, Sir. Apparently the pilot and the demolition guy are discussing the appropriate protocols for bringing a live 105MM round onto the General's aircraft. Or maybe they are just discussing theory versus reality."

"What? What in blazes are you babbling about. Get out there and get them into the air."

"Excuse me. How in the fuck do you expect me to do that? If the pilot won't listen to the guy holding the live round, what the hell makes you think he'll give a damn about anything I say?"

"Quit arguing. Do something! That's an order."

Before anything more could be said, Evans scrambled on board and the craft rose rapidly into the sky.

I considered asking Fielder if that was a fast enough response for him, but it wasn't worth the effort. Thirty minutes later, as the sun went bye, we entered the gate.

The next day we learned that the General's aides had ordered the operation to impress the General. When he saw the round in a demolition pit, he yawned, said "Interesting." and walked away. Demolition blew it in place.

What a fucking wonderful war!

One thing about Captain Idiot's stupid commitment to never learn, he was very consistent. We were headed out the gate for patrol when he called us to attention.

"Men, I know you've been working hard at a tough and dangerous job. Your patrol today ends at the Battalion NDP. I promise, you will go from there to a night of stand down in Phu Loi. How about it?" he enthused.

"Right."

"Yeah, sure."

"Oh! Bless you my Captain!"

The patrol played out per standard. Long, hot, sweaty, boring, hot, long, sweaty, hot, and long. We made the NDP at 0200. I radioed the Captain's R.T.O. "Advise the Captain we're at Battalion. I'm requesting final authorization for stand down."

We placed our radio on some sandbags and my R.T.O. and I sat down on either side of it. We waited. The afternoon heat beat down. We waited. We sipped warm water from our canteens. We waited. We drowsed. We waited.

The radio squealed. I jumped. R.T.O. grabbed the mike and responded. The Captain's R.T.O. screamed, "What the fuck are you doing? Why aren't you monitoring your radio? I've been calling for half an hour! What's the matter with you? You incompetent asshole!"

He paused. The mike already in my hand, I exploded over the airwaves. "You shit for brains fuck! Don't you ever speak that way to my R.T.O. again or I'll blow your fucking balls off! We've been sitting next to the radio for the last hour monitoring it. Waiting on your lazy, incompetent ass to give us a response. What's taken you so goddam long?"

Captain Idiot must have been next to his R.T.O. I stopped broadcasting, and he jumped right in. "Lieutenant! You will cease abusing my radio operator! It is not his fault you were not doing your job properly. If you monitored your radio as you should, we could have already reached you. In any case, you can't speak to my man that way!"

"The Hell I can't! No fucking Spec Four is going to chew out anyone in my platoon and not get his ass royally kicked by me. Won't happen ever! And you know damn good and well these cock sucking radios frequently fuck up and malfunction."

"Lieutenant, I order you to return to my NDP at once!"

"Roger that! What about stand down for my men?"

"Never mind that. I gave you an order!"

"And I'm following it. I'm on my way as we speak. Now what about stand down?"

"Just get your butt over here immediately."

"I said I'm on my way. Don't make me ask you again. Do my guys go in on stand down or not?"

"Yeah—Yes, they can go, but you get back here."

"Roger. Quicker than you'll believe." I flipped the mike to my R.T.O. "Collins take the men in to Phu Loi. I'll see you there. Theoretically, anyway." I headed for the gate.

To my surprise, Tennessee Thunder rolled around from the other side of the NDP and Captain Jimmie Tucker drawled, "Hey Mickey, quite a conversation. Reckon five or six hundred in the radio audience. Care for a ride to your command performance?"

"Angels, disguised in a tank! Thanks, Jimmie. Love a ride." Weiler and I climbed on board. Tennessee Thunder roared out of the NDP.

Two thirds of the way there, Fielder called, "Where are you? You should be on your way by now."

"Five minutes." I responded.

"What! I don't see you anywhere. You couldn't have walked that fast. What kind of bullshit is that?" he sputtered.

"Walked? Who the hell said anything about walking? I've got a first class ride on Tennessee Thunder. The gate's in sight. There in two minutes."

Tucker drove fine tank. He slid those sixty tons to a stop slightly sideways to the gate, like a pro skater, with me facing the Captain, who stood, hands on hips, at the top of the hill.

I jumped down, thanked Jimmie, slung my M-16 from my shoulder, and went up the hill. My anger iced all my emotions. Battle calm!

I stopped in front of the Captain, saluted, and dropped my hand to the pistol grip of my rifle. As the Captain looked down from returning my salute, I turned it slightly and thumbed the selector to full automatic. The Captain's eyes widened as he realized thirty rounds could erupt from the muzzle of the weapon a mere eighteen inches from his belly button at the movement of my finger.

I smiled like anavenging angel and in a voice, quiet and calm enough to terrify the devil, said "Now, what the fuck is your problem?—Sir."

Fielder's face, normally flushed at least a medium shade of red, turned pale enough to persuade any moderately observant individual he clearly had no African American heritage. He said nothing for a long stretch, as I just grinned at him. The light of knowledge slowly glimmered in his eyes. He finally understood. I would not hesitate. Pushed the wrong way, I would pull the trigger.

Finally, he stammered, "You can't—I mean—you shouldn't—that is—Look! It's not right for you to talk to me that way. It isn't—it isn't proper military procedure."

That phrase alone almost made me pull the trigger. Instead, I spoke quietly. "I will always speak to you as necessary, to keep you from killing my men. Not you, not the Colonel, not the General, not anyone will throw away their lives on stupidity while I'm drawing breath." I stared hard into his eyes to convey my truth. "Do you understand me?"

Fielder's small mind finally comprehended my insanity. Radiating fear, he nodded.

"Good! I'll be joining my platoon in Phu Loi then. Unless you object. You don't object. Do you?—Sir?"

Captain Idiot shook his head and managed to squeak out, "No. That's okay."

"Fine." I thumbed the switch to safety, let the rifle hang from its sling, saluted, and turned back down the hill, with depressing thoughts of a long walk to town. Surprisingly, Tennessee Thunder remained parked at the gate. I walked down to it.

"Well, Captain, I thought you had left."

Jimmie grinned that huge country grin of his, "Hell no, son. I would not have missed that show for anything. Thought you might shoot him."

From the look on Tucker's face, my laughter must have had a touch of insanity. "I'll probably have to eventually, but apparently not today. Can a couple of GI's hitch a ride into Phu Loi?"

"Mickey you can hitch with me any time you like. You're my kind of dinkydau. More balls than sense!"

Weiler and I climbed aboard. Tennessee Thunder wheeled and headed for Phu Loi. Half an hour later Jimmie dropped us at the gate. A ten minute hike brought us to the stand down barracks. The platoon had beat us there by about twenty minutes. Collins had everything organized. As I entered the barracks he was saying, "Yeah! All weapons have to be stored in the locker. Phu Loi is considered too secure to allow combat crazies like you guys to run free while armed and—Mickey! You're all over the net. You backed the man down! Backed him down solid! Way to go, Champ!"

A chorus of "Yeahs! Amens!" and "Right ons!" erupted.

I basked for a moment, then spoke. "Easy guys, just a battle, not a war. And what he said," I jerked a thumb at Collins, "on the weapons. We're here for relaxation not target practice." I unslung my M-16 for the second time that day. This time I shucked the magazine, and cleared the chamber. "One for the locker." I handed it to Collins.

The weapons stored, everyone headed out the door to the mess hall to grab some chow before pursuing defilement of the base camp. I secured the locker and exited last from the barracks. A hundred meters behind the last group of my men, I watched a soldier approach, waving his hands and shouting. Moving closer I noted he was a Captain. He was yelling something about regulation headgear.

Abruptly, my men broke into my favorite song, "M—I—C—K—E—Y...."

I recognized Captain Henson – a major REMF. The tableau before me came into clear focus: a rear echelon asshole screwing with combat troops for no good reason.

"M—O—U—S—EEEE."

I reached the group. Captain REMF turned and snarled, "Lieutenant, are these your people?"

"Sir, I am most proud to confirm they are indeed mine."

"Mickey Mouse! Mickey....

"Well, are you going to let them behave like this?"

"Sir, I gotta' tell you, only the bar on my collar is keeping me from joining them. What is this crap about regulation headgear, anyway?"

"Are you blind, Lieutenant? They aren't wearing the regulation baseball caps."

"Sir, Sir, surely you are aware that Division has approved bush headgear for combat troops. And make no mistake, these men are fierce, combat troops! Killers! Every one! I'm surprised they haven't cut your throat for messing with them. I trained them better than that." I waved at the guys, "Cut the music. You yo-yos can't sing worth a damn anyway. Get to the mess hall for chow before it closes."

The men moved rapidly for the food. I followed closely and over my shoulder, said, "See you around, Sir."

Henson sputtered, "Lieutenant, you come back here! This isn't over. I...."

I ignored him and entered the building. Collins looked at me quizzically and asked, "Mickey, when did Division issue any ruling on hats?"

"Division? Hats? How the fuck would I know? The important thing is, how the fuck would Captain REMF know?"

The laughter was hearty. The food was passable. The mood was relaxed. I informed the guys, "I plan to get some snacks and reading material from the PX, return to the barracks early, and get twelve hours of uninterrupted, relaxed, blessed sleep. Do not get into any trouble serious enough to spoil my plans, or I will shoot you in organs you have nightmares about!"

Everyone went their merry way. I headed over to the alleged Dairy Queen and ordered a hot fudge sundae for dessert. The concoction consisted of runny white stuff, covered with sticky brown stuff and sprinkled with crunchy beige nuggets, which might have been nuts. It did not even resemble a hot fudge sundae. It tasted great. Admittedly, my deprived palate was not at its peak due to recent culinary offerings.

At the PX I picked up a large bottle of coca-cola, a one pound bag of M&M peanuts, and an historical novel on the Mongol leader Tamerlane. I returned to the barracks, gorged for an hour on coke and candy and read about a man named Timur-i-Leng or Timur the cripple, who ruled much of the world during the middle ages. As the sun was fleeing beyond the horizon, I stretched out to finally get a good, twelve hour nap. I had a roof over my head, a fine three inch thick army mattress on a wonderful army bunk, and no worries. I slid swiftly into a dream world, with hopes of visiting Vanessa.

Our mouths locked together in passionate depths previously unexplored. Our lips separated as we gasped for breath. I nibbled my way down her neck. I reached her bountiful mounds and massaged one with my hand while I tasted every millimeter of the other. I circled her nipple with my tongue and sucked it gently into my mouth as my hand slipped down between her legs to paradise.

She moaned, "Please—Please —"

"Wake up, Lieutenant! Get the hell out of that bunk! You've got major trouble!"

I struggled to not leave paradise, but that grating voice with its arrogant tone just would not leave me alone.

Goddamed green ghouls...

"C'mon! Wake up and stand to!"

I opened one eye to the glare of several flashlights and a hulking figure shaking my bunk. Faster than it takes to tell, I was on my feet facing that presence. "What the fuck do you think you're doing! You want to die young or what?"

He stepped back. "Lieutenant! I'm Captain Henson! Don't threaten me. You have a serious problem! Sleep time is over. You'll be up all night guarding your so-called combat soldiers."

"What?" I spotted Collins. "Hey, what the hell is numb nuts talking about?"

"Damn it, Lieutenant. I'm speaking to you." Captain REMF shook in his rage.

"Well, I ain't speaking to you. Collins, what's the deal?"

"Some of the guys got into it with a Colonel and a Chaplain, Mickey."

"Shit! Anybody hurt? And where are the guys now?"

"No serious damage. The guys are under watch down the hall. But, Mickey —"

"What, already?"

"Wolfe, had a grenade."

"That asshole! I'm gonna give him an enema with it. Let me slip on my boots and we'll go talk with them."

"Lieutenant, I'm not finished with you." Captain Numb Nuts attempted to be insistent.

I sighed as I slipped on a boot. "Captain, I'll advise you of this once and once only. If you wish to live long and see good days (Thank you, Father Baker), you will stay the fuck out of my way." I slipped on the other boot, "Let's go, Collins," and brushed past the REMF.

I entered the room and found four of my guys with their M-16s encircling three of the most wretched, hang dog, looking GIs I'd ever seen. I motioned the guards back, picked up a chair and seated myself facing the three. "Okay, who wants to start?"

No one spoke. Then the chorus: "Not our fault! Didn't do nothin'! You gotta understand!"

"Quiet!" I snarled. "I warned you guys about interrupting my sleep. Your lives are in danger on that count alone. I want to hear it, from one person. Hercules, give it a try."

"Lieutenant," Captain Numb Nuts interrupted. "These men are under arrest and you need to personally guard them until they can be charged formal—"

I came out of the chair greased lightning faster than out of the bed. Instantaneously, my face was six inches from his, my eyes flamed deadlier than a bamboo viper, and my voice was a quiet knell of doom. "Captain, I'm talking to my men. If you like living, go away."

The REMF gulped and made a funny sound. I glanced down and (Must have been a trick of the light) a dark stain seemed to appear at his crotch and ooze down his leg. Nah! A seasoned combat soldier surely would not pee his pants. Surely. He turned and left. I returned to the seat and nodded to Hercules.

"Mickey, we was returning from the beer hall. That's a damn long walk. We wasn't bothering no one. We had to take a piss, so we used a bush outside a building. There was no lights. No one seen us. We finished and started up the road when these two assholes rushed us from the dark screamin' and yellin'. Hell, we didn't know who they was in the dark. We screamed and yelled back. Maybe a bit louder and less nice, but they asked for it."

I nodded. "Okay. That about it?" The three agreed. "Wolfe, what about this grenade?"

"Well, uhhh—yeah. I sorta forgot to put one in the locker, and I guess I did mention to one of them that I would—uhhh—that is...."

"You told the chaplain you'd shove it up his ass and clear up his mind!" Hercules snorted.

"Now just a damn minute —"

"Everyone! Quiet!" Immediate silence. I spoke softly "One last question. Think before you answer. Did these guys identify themselves as officers when they came at you?"

A long pause, and all agreed. No one had identified themselves.

"Okay. Wolfe, I'm going to seriously kick your ass for being so stupid with that grenade." I held up my hand. "Don't even start with me. As for the rest, I'll do what I can for you. Collins keep a watch on them. I'll see you in the morning."

"Right Mickey."

"Weiler! I need to call the Captain. Then I'm going back to bed and God won't be able to help the son of a bitch who disturbs me."

A brief conversation with Fielder followed. Such conversations at 0200 hours are best kept brief. "Yes, Sir. I guess you and the Colonel need to come in tomorrow morning and see if we can straighten this out. Roger, out."

I headed for my bunk, hoping beyond hope to re-visit Vanessa.

"Lieutenant, I thought you were guarding these criminals!" Captain Numb Nuts again.

"Thinking is obviously not a strong point of yours, Captain. Go change your pants and don't bother me." I brushed past him to my bunk, yanked off my boots and collapsed on the mattress. I did not find my way back to Vanessa, but the ghastly greens didn't find me either. Call it a draw.

The morning arrived about a century too early and judging solely from the ache between my ears, the day held little promise. Coffee and toast for breakfast, and Fielder and the Colonel joined us in the barracks for a hearing.

Captain REMF entered with a Colonel Henry and Chaplain Captain Westin. I'd seen them before. Where? In Post Office posters, wanted for arrogance and pomposity respectively. Introductions all around – seating according to rank – Captain Numb Nuts jumped right in.

"We're here because these soldiers committed criminal acts in attacking Colonel Henry and Captain Westin, and destroyed private property in the process."

"Excuse me," I protested, "What private property is alleged damaged."

REMF grabbed the bait. "There is no alleged! These yahoos destroyed the Chaplain's palm tree. Absolutely ruined it."

"Chaplain Westin? You had a palm tree? Your private property?" I asked as innocently as possible.

Captain Westin huffed. "I certainly did, and these ruffians absolutely killed it. Just tore it to pieces."

"Well, Captain, you know these men are trained killers. Trained by the United States Army. No doubt they could kill a defenseless palm tree if they wanted."

"Now see here." REMF tried to regain control amid the laughter. The Chaplain and Colonel Henry were not amused. Ignoring Numb Nuts I continued.

"Colonels, Captain Fielder, Chaplain Westin, I think this can all be sorted out if you'll work with me for a few minutes. Would you do that, Sirs?"

They agreed. REMF made one more try. "Wait a minute. This is highly irregular. I want these men prosecuted."

"Captain Henson what you want is not relevant. You don't know anything about what happened between these people. Let's ask them." Not waiting for a response I asked, "Colonel Henry I understand there were no lights in the area. Is that correct?"

"Well, yes, but these men...."

"We'll get to that, Sir. Captain Westin, you agree?" He nodded.

"Colonel, did you actually see these men damage the palm tree? It was pretty dark."

"Well, no. But it had to be them."

"Chaplain, the same question, please."

"I didn't see them either. I agree with the Colonel though. It had to be them."

"I understand, Sir. One last question for each of you. When you approached these men, rather abruptly I'm sure in your concern for the Chaplain's palm tree, and please think a moment before answering, did you clearly identify yourselves as officers, or perhaps, did yiu just start yelling at them?"

Both officers stared at me. Finally the Chaplain spoke. "Uhh. I guess we probably made no clear identification of ourselves as officers. At least I don't recall that. Do you Colonel?"

Colonel Arrogance stared daggers at the Chaplain and me in turn. "No. I made no such identification," came his terse response. "But that man," he pointed, "threatened me with a grenade!"

"And I'll get to that, Sir.

"Gentlemen, let me summarize the situation. We have three drunken soldiers coming home late at night. We have two unidentified officers with no insignia visible coming at them out of the darkness yelling. We have shouts and counter shouts, yells and counter yells, and threats and counter threats. We have no actual observance of who damaged the palm tree.

"Gentlemen, I believe we can resolve this with a sincere apology to the Colonel and the Chaplain from these combat troops – and they are hard core combat troops being drunk and stupid on stand down – an apology and we'll replace the Chaplain's palm tree. What do you say?"

"What about the grenade?" Colonel Henry sputtered. "That can't be excused by drinking."

"That's right. That calls for a court martial," Numb Nuts hollered.

Quietly confident, I responded. "Nonsense, Sirs. An Article 15, sure. Take some cash from him. I assure you, I'll kick his butt so he won't sit for a month. How about it?"

The REMF fumed. The others, perhaps not wanting this to drag out and realizing how silly they would look, consented.

Apologies rendered, we filed out of the barracks. The Colonel and Chaplain back to their chapel. My Colonel and Captain back to the field. My men and me to hunt palm trees. Captain Numb Nuts REMF to go suck his thumb and sulk.

"Okay you turkeys. I am irritated and in dis-humor. Get your entrenching tools and let's find some nice palm trees. We need two. Exemplary ones."

"Two? Mickey, the Chaplain only had one. He don't need no two."

"Hey! One for the Chaplain," I grinned, "and one for our own favorite leader, Capitan Fielder!"

"What? No fucking way!"

"Hell no! Not for that ass!"

"Why the hell would we get one for that shit head?"

I raised my arms to calm the chorus. "Guys, guys. Think a minute. You've all seen the movie Mr. Roberts, haven't you?"

"No."

"Don't think so."

"Who's in that one?"

"I am appalled by your lack of formal education. Just appalled." I shook my head sadly, for effect. "Okay, the short version. You have a WWII Cargo Ship with the bad Captain James Cagney and the good Transport Officer under him, our hero, Henry Fonda as Mr. Roberts.. The two are always feuding over Cagney's treatment of the men. Fonda's good work wins recognition for the Captain in the form of—wait for it—a palm tree. Cagney won't let Fonda off the ship and into the war. He uses his treatment of the men as hostage for Fonda's good behavior. Fonda finally has enough and throws the palm tree overboard. He gets his transfer. Word comes back he's been killed," I stared pointedly into Collins eyes, "and Jack Lemmon as Ensign Pulver, a junior officer, throws the second palm tree overboard and takes on Mr. Robert's role of defending the men."

I looked around the group, "Well, what do you think?"

"Mickey," Collins scratched his head. "I ain't sure I understand. Why would we give an award for good performance to Fielder? Fielder!"

"Ahh! The beauty of my plan is this. In the movie, Cagney comes out in his ugly, striped bathrobe and waters the tree—his prize—while all the men know he screwed up and Mr. Roberts won the award for him. Fielder will think you guys finally love and respect him, and I fucking guarantee he'll water the damn thing—and...."

The light dawned. Smiles. Grins. Chuckles. Serious belly laughs. The men were in. Soon, so were the palm trees.

I near choked on my laughter the first morning when, right on schedule, Fielder came forth from the Pit—to water—the palm tree—I swear—in an ugly, striped bathrobe identical to Cagney's!

I sat on top of my bunker quietly watching the late afternoon heat shimmer the air over the rice paddy. I was drafting a letter to my best friend. He had just written to ask me to be Best Man at his wedding. We had always planned to be Best Man at each other's wedding. Trouble was, he was getting married in February. My DEROS was April.

Collins, plopped down next to me. "Hey, Mickey. A question."

"You can ask. Answers cost a buck. Truthful answers, ten."

Collins chuckled. "Think you might want to answer this one. Had the idea you were sending me a personal message with your Mr. Roberts story." He raised an eyebrow, "Were you?"

I shrugged, "You're an astute young man. Further, deponent sayeth not."

"Planning on leaving us, Mickey?"

"That's two questions. But no. I ain't planning, just figuring. The bastard hasn't had any luck with court martial or getting me killed, I reckon he has no choice but to transfer me."

"And what do you want from me? I'm not you. What am I supposed to do?"

"Damn! That's questions three and four. You're running up a hefty bill, and I ain't sure you're good for it."

"Mickey, I'm serious man."

"Me too. Look, Ensign Pulver wasn't Mr. Roberts either. Just do what you're good at. Do your best to take care of my men—our men, when they won't let me do it anymore."

"I don't know, Mickey. I don't fucking know."

"I do. You'll handle it 'cause you can. 'Cause you have to."

We sat in silence for a while. I punched Collins lightly on the shoulder. "And don't forget, you owe me forty bucks."

****

Chapter 14 ~ Passages

"I'm giving Second Platoon to our new officer, Lieutenant Greenwell." Fielder's voice grated almost as much as his words.

"Why in hell are you doing that?" I snapped. "If I may ask, Sir? Second has done pretty good under my command."

Fielder squirmed a bit, stiffened and said, "Well, that's true, but—in fact, that's why I'm making the change. Greenwell is completely new. I want him to have the best platoon, so he gets broken in right. Besides, I'm giving you Third Platoon. They've been without a Platoon Leader since Kelly left three weeks ago and their performance has slipped. I need you to straighten them out."

The words, including the acknowledgment of Second as the best, left handed as it was, sounded good. I had to give Fielder that much. I would sooner kiss a bamboo viper on the lips than believe his bullshit, but it was good bullshit. I knew the noose was being slipped around my neck, and Fielder would spring the trap door soon. Didn't appear there was much I'd be able to do about it. I nodded—consent, not agreement.

"Damn, Mickey! Do you always got to be right?" The news didn't make Collins a joyful camper.

"Figuring out what stupid assholes are likely to do doesn't win me any genius awards. The issue ain't being right, it's keeping our people alive." I grinned. "You've done that at the end of the day, it's a good day. I hope you'll have an abundance of those." I shrugged. "Survive it all, and we can spend the rest of our lives figuring out all the times we weren't right."

I placed my hand on my friend's shoulder and moved my face close to his. Quietly, I said, "Take care of the guys. Just—take care of the guys." I picked up my ruck and walked to the Third Platoon bunker. I did not look back.

Greenwell showed up that afternoon. He should have been named 'Spit and Polish Well'. He hit the platoon with storm and thunder, shouting about military discipline and threatening everything from Article Fifteens to executions at dawn. Greenwell was exactly the fool Fielder wanted. I hoped none of my guys would die because of that.

I reminded myself they weren't mine anymore and turned to my immediate problem—my new kids. To be kind, Third was a fucking mess, as they had been during my entire time in the company. Lt. Kelly had been an idiot, whose departure had moderately improved the situation. The Platoon Sergeant, Bo Baptiste, self described as a "Crazy Cajun from Loozeeanna", was called BB. He thought it was because of his initials, but for the guys it referred to his brain.

BB gathered the troops for my little get to know you talk. "Okay, all you wanna be REMFs. I'll keep this short and to the point. There are only two things to keep in mind. I am committed to complete whatever mission we are assigned. You might not care about that, but the second thing is, I'm also committed to seeing everyone survive this place in one piece, if at all possible. If you care about that, pay attention to what I tell you and follow my directions. I will correct you on something one time. The second time, I will hurt you. Fail to listen and learn and thereby endanger the mission or the men in this platoon and I'm likely to kill you."

Well, ain't you just the high god in the heavens, P.S.C. piped in.

No, but I need them to listen.

I paused, patted my M-16, and grinned. "The wise among you should assure the ignorant, I always do what I say."

I surveyed the entire ragged group. "Now, even with four new guys there are only twenty-three of us. Strategically under-manned as usual. Listen and work together or they'll send your purple heart to your wife or girlfriend—posthumously. For the linguistically challenged among you that means after you are dead."

I pointed at Baptiste. "Sergeant BB will assign each new guy to a veteran. You new men, shut up, listen and learn. Your chances of survival depend on it. You old dogs, train these guys right and quick. I may need them to replace your bullet riddled hide.

"We have 'bush tonight. Fairly close in where a trail enters the rice paddy. Get your gear ready, I'll inspect weapons and gear at 1600. Precisely 1600. Anyone not ready can spend their supper time getting ready."

I waved at BB, "Get them working on it. I refuse to let anybody die from not attending to their basic fighting tools."

Two "veterans" chose not to listen. They spent supper cleaning their rifles and eating c-rats. An hour before dark we moved out for the nearby ambush site. We set up in a shallow gully, in a straight line perimeter facing the trail from twenty meters. My instructions were simple. "If anything moves on the trail, kill it. Your partner and you can not both sleep at the same time. Talking is for the morning, if you are still alive."

We settled in and night thudded down. I watched and listened for four hours on the first watch. My stomach bubbled a bit from not having guys I knew I could count on, but the basic situation seemed not too fearsome. I took my turn to sleep at 0100.

"LT, wake up!" Someone was shaking me. "C'mon, Lieutenant! Mickey—" My eyes snapped open at my name. I grabbed the arm.

"What's up?" I whispered.

BB leaned toward me. "Gooks! Ten of 'em just walked by!"

"Shit! Any particular reason no one opened fire?"

"They walked right up to one of the fucking new guys. He just froze. They slipped on by."

"Where are they now?"

Even in the dark, I could feel BB struggle with that simple question. "Uh—dunno, down the trail I guess."

"Wonderful. Get the starlite scope and join me at the edge of the perimeter." I got to my feet in a crouch. "And BB?"

"Yes, Sir?"

"How many of our yo-yos were asleep that no one else saw these guys and opened up?"

"Uh—well—uh—that is...."

"Never mind. The answer is all of them. Get the damn scope." I slipped to the edge of the ambush.

I searched the terrain with the scope, but spotted nothing. I called fire support. "This is Mickey—November Six. Requesting some illumination over the rice paddy. We may have some tourists out there."

Bathing the landscape in a ghostly, green glow produced no sightings either. A great morning with Herr Kapitan loomed. No choice. I gave it up and passed the order – no more sleeping tonight. With my luck the first ten were probably an advance team for a whole damn battalion.

The hike in the next morning was short. Too damn short. Fielder was a pain. A significant anal pain with comments about the deterioration of Third's performance. I wondered who to kill to get out of this chicken-shit outfit, then reminded myself, be patient – good things come. I had an extra box of corn flakes at breakfast.

That night we had 'bush on the other end of the trail. I guess Fielder thought they might come back that way. We were joined by Sergeant Hammond and Gertrude – his frisky partner – a German Shepherd. I slept better that night figuring the dog would alert if we had company. The night was quiet and strangely peaceful. I felt myself moving away towards other things, which might not be good but couldn't be any worse. Strange how feelings can be both right and wrong..

I finished breakfast the next morning and headed for my bunker when the guillotine sliced down towards my neck.

"Lieutenant, grab your pack. There's a chopper in the air to pick you up for your TDY assignment." Fielder was way too self satisfied. "It'll be here in five minutes."

"Temporary duty?" A bit taken aback, I continued, "What temporary duty might that be, Sir?"

"Never mind about that. Get your gear and be ready to go in five minutes."

"Go where, Sir?"

"You don't need to know that." His voice rising, Fielder screeched, "Stop stalling and get ready to move out!"

"Stalling? Who me? Sir, I pick up my ruck and I'm ready to go. I'm curious about where and why though. Traditionally, they do tell you what you're supposed to be doing. I mean, I've known some officers to get upset if you make it up yourself."

Red faced, Fielder screamed, "Lieutenant! Enough! Stop sassing me or I'll...."

I raised my eyebrows. Quietly, "You'll what?"

Lobster red, he hissed, "I order you to get your pack and be ready to lift off in the next two minutes."

"Okay. No problem, Sir. Why didn't you just say so. I mean, that's easy enough to do. You should work on being clearer about what you want."

"Lieutenant!"

I flipped a sloppy salute and spun towards my bunker, leaving Herr Kapitan, shaking, like a freezing man, in the early morning heat. It was actually seven minutes later that the Huey lifted off, transporting me to—didn't know, didn't care.

The backwash from the chopper pelted my back as I walked to the compound. A walled enclosure surrounded several one story, adobe buildings, reminiscent of a modest Spanish villa, but with a few thatched huts spoiling the picture. I spotted a small sign "Ops." and went to report.

A balding, slightly overweight, thirty-plus N.C.O. perched behind the basic grey gunmetal desk. "Hey, Sergeant, reporting in. Guess I'm TDY here. No clue what for."

He grinned, "Well, Sir, we're pretty good at clueing in the clueless. You've drawn what we call your basic plum assignment."

I mentally glanced around for the booby trap. Plum assignment? Me?

"Yes, Sir, by 1400 hours each day you have to pick a half dozen pre-registered artillery interdiction sites on the map, list the coordinates for the arty boys and then spend one four hour shift each night monitoring radio traffic to call boom boom as needed."

"Sergeant – Kincaid?"

"Yes, Sir, that's my name. Don't wear it out." He grinned again.

"I've learned when something seems too good to be true, it usually isn't. You wouldn't kid an old boonie rat would you? I'm expecting a TDY in some nasty, sub-basement of hell. You're describing a small slice of paradise. I mean...," I shrugged.

"No, Sir, Sergeant Weathers and I run a nice pleasant delivery service – Howitzers-On-Call. Takes three of us, so Division keeps running an extra man through. Usually to give them a break, I guess. Average stay is two weeks, so relax and enjoy."

"I see." I gazed out the window at the dusty courtyard. "And just what form does relaxation take here in Shangra La?"

"Well, we do have a friendly card game most nights. Penny a point. Hearts. Just a friendly game—Really."

My bunk was in a small private room with a good mattress on the cot. That afternoon, after logging the required interdiction sites, I tried it out. Heaven! A four hour nap before supper, good chow, and prospects of a short peaceful tour for the night. I felt down right human. Even losing seven hundred and thirty two points at hearts didn't bother me.

Monitoring the radio until 0200 AM was not a problem. Quiet, peaceful, boring, not a problem at all. I got another splendid four hours sleep before breakfast, and a two hour nap that morning. I hardly noticed losing eight hundred and thirteen points at hearts that evening.

The next day I strolled across the courtyard after lunch, when two compound dogs decided to enjoy some afternoon delight. I stopped to admire the lucky scoundrels.

"BOOM! BOOM!"

Amazing how a mortar round can rearrange your reality in an instant. I scrambled into a nearby building.

"BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!"

I watched out the window for sign of a full scale attack. The dust settled in the courtyard and calm returned. I ventured out the door and cracked up. Two dogs still connected butt to butt and frantically scrambling to run in opposite directions. That's life. One moment you're getting screwed, the next moment you are.

That night, as I lost nine hundred and fifty-two points, I awakened to the fact that two card shark Sergeants had found another pigeon to screw, and he was me. Seventeen dollars and ninety-seven cents in three nights playing for "pennies." Sheesh! I figured I'd take an early nap and pass on the game the next night.

At lunch the next day, I realized a few days rest had restored my body, but I had a premonition of darkness. Damn! A dark future in the 'Nam. Who could predict that? I was headed back to my bunk when Sergeant Kincaid hollered, "LT, radio call for you. A Captain Fielder." Darkness indeed!

"Grab your gear and get to the helicopter pad. A chopper is in the air. You are being transferred."

Fielder had lost none of his charm. "Sir, transferred? At this uncivilized hour? In this torturous heat of the day? With insufficient notice to properly pack my suitcase?"

"Damn it, Lieutenant!" Fielder screeched. "Your ride will be there in fifteen minutes. Be waiting on it. That's an order!"

"Why certainly, Captain. Why didn't you just say so in the first place? See you soon. Out." I pictured the shade of red Fielder's face was at that moment. Vermillion, I think.

I said goodbye to Sergeant Kincaid, picked up my stuff and was at the pad in ten minutes, already getting hyped for a final confrontation. Army regulations, 'hurry up and wait', kicked in. I sat out by the pad for about two hours. I was steamed in more ways than one when the chopper finally arrived.

Fielder stood waiting at the top of the hill, legs spread and arms crossed. A familiar scene, I thought. Last time he almost got killed. Fool don't learn. I ascended, tossed a sloppy salute, "Sir, pray tell, where am I being sent? Or are we going to play games about it again?"

"You're being transferred to the 1st of the 16th out of Lai Khe. First Division Headquarters." He sneered. "Your duffle has been packed for you." He waved his hand to his left.

I walked over to the bag and started to open it.

"There's no time for that, Lieutenant!" Fielder roared. "The chopper is waiting for you. Everything's there. Take your stuff and get out of here!"

I stared blood at this infantile tyrant. Murderous mayhem spun through my mind. I gave a slight head shake. "Okay. I'm sure everything is there since you say so." I raised the duffle to my shoulder and turned down the hill. Two steps, I stopped. "Of course, if anything is missing when I reach my destination, I will have to file a theft report against you." My death grin split my face. I turned back towards my ride.

"Lieutenant! Wait. Check your bag now." A plaintive note cracked Fielder's voice. "It's okay."

"Not to worry, Sir. Nothing is missing." I answered over my shoulder, "I have that on the best authority."

I ignored his babbling and hopped my freedom bird, at least freedom from Herr Kapitan. The chopper lifted for a sixty minute ride to Quon Loi, to get the rest of my belongings and then catch a flight to Lai Khe. I didn't figure what was ahead could be any worse than what was behind. I figured wrong.

Half way to Quon Loi, I realized I owed two sergeants seventeen dollars and ninety-seven cents. Oh well, next time I saw them.

I stuffed the few personal items I had stored at the supply building into the top of my bag, shouldered it and headed out the door to the airfield.

"Lieutenant, wait! You can't take that rifle with you, it has to stay here." The speaker, Sergeant Elbert Dorfman, a particularly unpleasant REMF, stood with his hand outstretched like a skinny, frustrated traffic cop.

"Don't worry, Sarge. I'll send it back from Lai Khe and you can account for it."

"No, sir. Colonel's orders, you are to leave it here!"

I doubted his truthfulness. Pulling rank or walking out the door with it were both tempting, but I didn't need the hassle. I smiled, "Its all yours." I snapped a two handed push pass as hard as I'd ever used on the basketball court. The M-16 bounced off Dorfman's chest and clanged on the floor. I turned to the door.

"Hey! Lieutenant, you have to clean that rifle to turn it—in." Elbert's voice trailed off as I spun back and stared hard.

"Sergeant," I shook my head, a tiger ready to kill. I don't think you're man enough to make me clean it. Do you?"

He backed half a step, shaking like bamboo in a monsoon. His mouth opened but no intelligible sound emitted.

"Didn't think so." I walked out to the airfield and boarded my flight for Lai Khe by way of Bien Hoa air base. For the next ninety miles I focused on the thought that we were flying over dangerous enemy territory, and I was armed with two grenades and my knife. The Bien Hoa flight line was a moderately comforting sight. Amazingly so for a sea of black tarmac with hundreds of flying machines bobbing on it.

I walked to the island of tranquility in the middle of all the movement, the flight dispatch center.

"Hey, Sergeant Major, I'm bound for Lai Khe to join the 1st of the 16th. Any flights headed that way you could squeeze me on?"

"Let me check, Lieutenant." The speaker was a large, black man with more twinkle in his eyes than was the norm for his rank. He rustled his papers for a minute, looked up and said, "Uh oh. Nothing headed that way until 0930 tomorrow. Sorry."

"Story of my life these days, Sergeant Major—Stanton is it? Any billets available for transients?"

"We don't handle that, Sir. Wish I could help you."

"Okay. Appreciate the thought, Sergeant Major." I turned back to the sea of tarmac. I dropped my gear about fifteen feet to the side of the dispatch center and sat on the ground.

Another fine mess. Time to review. I'm stranded at the Bien Hoa airfield. I have no place to spend the night. In the event of an attack, I am armed with my knife and two grenades to defend myself and no place for cover. I have a half canteen of warm water and one c-rat—boned chicken.

I took a sip of the warm wet. That's the good news! What a ham and mother fuckers situation this is! Instead of a court martial or getting killed, I've been transferred to God knows what. I think I've accomplished my missions. I know, Grace of God and good luck, no one has died under my command. The sanity part is a little slippery. Ye gods and little fishes (Father Baker again), I was ready to kill Fielder. Hell, I'm still ready to kill him, or for that matter any other asshole who exposes my people unnecessarily. Why are they so fucking stupid? Damn job is hard enough without having idiots who don't give a shit in control. I'll kill every damn one of those fuckers, before I'll let my guys get hurt. I'll annihilate the goddam REMFs! I'll—

Whoa, son! Don't mean nothin'! Just, don't mean nothin'. None of the bastards are in your sights at the moment. Save the attitude for when you need it.

Question of the moment is, what to do now?

A jeep pulled around the side of the dispatch shack and stopped next to me. I looked at the Captain in the passenger seat.

"Hey, Lieutenant. What's your story?"

I stood. "Sir, I'm headed for Lai Khe, and I'm stranded 'til 0930."

"Not the best situation. Who are you joining?"

"1st of the 16th, Sir."

"Good outfit. We're the 2nd of the 16th. I can offer you a meal and a place to sack out for the evening, if you like."

"Yeah sure!—that would be excellent, Sir. A good c-rat, some fresh H2O and the corner of a storeroom would be more than adequate"

"We can probably do a bit better than that. We have a pretty good reputation for hospitality. Hop on. I'm Joe Eliyas."

I climbed into the back seat and the driver gunned the jeep across the tarmac. The ride was a bit bumpy, but more fun than any amusement ride. Salvation always seems to come when least expected. A meal and a cot was good, but a friendly voice and a little bit of caring was beyond rubies and diamonds.

We stopped at Battalion HQ. Captain Eliyas met with some of his staff, and I sat and waited. Half an hour later the Captain emerged. "C'mon, young man, let's get you situated." He grinned.

"Good by me, Sir.

He escorted me into an air conditioned billet and led me to the back. He opened the door and I entered—paradise. Private, air conditioned rooms, a genuine "Back in the World" bed, a small lounge area, and—Unreal!—a separate bath and real shower stall. Stunned does not begin to cover it.

Eliyas spoke calmly as if this was an every day occurrence for him. "This is the Colonel's quarters. He'll be in Saigon for another two days and won't mind you using it."

"Sir, I...," —speechless.

"No sweat G.I.! It looks like you've had a bit of a rough patch. Relax and enjoy. Supper is in two hours, right across the quad. Around 2100 we open our bar. Why don't you take a nice shower, relax and I'll see you when soup's on."

I nodded. "Sir, uh—yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."

"No Problem. See you in a bit."

That quickly, I was alone. As near as I could estimate, I was approximately four thousand, seven hundred and three universes removed from where I had been an hour earlier. Totally unreal!

When I was in the third grade I found a quarter on the playground. My best friend and I snuck off to the candy counter at Klueg's Pharmacy on the corner. They had lots of penny candy choices. Jim and I took a quarter of an hour to decide on everything. I took about seven milli-seconds to decide on a long cool shower, and less than thirty seconds more to have the water pouring down.

The wet cascaded down my body, searching out dirt and dust in every nook and hidey hole. I luxuriated. I basked. I reveled. I—got aroused. Vanessa, my red-haired goddess erupted, whole and luscious, in my mind. I recalled my hands and mouth roaming every inch of her. Awesome hills, at once so soft and firm. Gentle curves undulating at my touch. Her dancer's legs, strong and supple. The sweet ravine soaked with the honeydew, where I drank deeply. Yet never satiated.

More! This journey we shared. She explored, caressed, kissed, stroked, and claimed all of me for her own. Her mouth encircled me. I grew harder, floated and understood the true meaning of the universe.

We sighed, oohed, ahhed, and exchanged lover's words, so filled with meaning, that seem so silly outside the act. She slipped to her knees. I entered from behind, thrusting smoothly. She groaned, whispered "Please..." I answered her desire, stroking harder, thrusting deeper, straining with all my strength. Together, we climbed to that time/space where we were the universe!

"Vanessaaa!" I—exploded all over the shower wall. Exhausted but purified, I slumped to the floor, allowing the water to beat down for awhile. Finally, I rinsed the shower wall, re-lathered and completed my cleansing. How priests and philosophers might judge me at that moment, I neither knew nor cared. I felt alive and damn good.

I rested in the air conditioning for a time before dressing and heading to supper.

A genuine salad bar with non-wilted lettuce and fresh tomatoes, peppers, and onions, three entrees, vegetables, and iced tea— a bounteous feast indeed! After finishing a full tray including two pieces of the chicken, I indulged in a slice of chocolate cake for dessert with about another gallon of iced tea.

I returned to my air conditioned quarters to await the opening of the bar, and reflected on my change of circumstances in a few hours time. I could survive. Dark valleys lay ahead for sure, but there were some very good people in the world. It was fortunate I didn't know how dark those valleys would be.

At the bar, beer was fifteen cents, cokes and mixed drinks were twenty cents, and my money was absolutely no good. Try as I might to buy a round for Eliyas and the other guys, it was not allowed to happen. I lost count of the rounds around fifteen or sixteen. I vaguely recall standing next to Eliyas outside the building in the deep dark of the night and taking a six gallon leak on a bush, while laughing uproariously at whatever it was that was funny. An undetermined number of rounds followed that exercise and somehow, I ended up in a sound slumber in the Colonel's bed.

I managed to make the chow hall for breakfast, toast and coffee all I could manage. My body seemed a bit sensitive to input for some strange reason.

I was at Battalion HQ by 0730. "Hey, Captain, quite a party. Thanks." I spoke quietly on the assumption his brain was bouncing inside his skull as mine was in my head.

"Hi-ho, Lieutenant!" he roared (Or so it seemed). "Always good to celebrate being alive or any other excuse you can find. Hey?"

I nodded, afraid that any sound would cause the world to quiver.

"I'll have Dawkins get the jeep and run you over to the airfield. Good luck to you." He extended his hand.

I gripped and shook firmly. "Thank you, Sir. Thank you for all of it. I'm glad you saw me sitting on the tarmac."

Eliyas's eyes twinkled, "You might say a word of thanks to Sergeant Major Stanton. He pointed out your plight to me."

I must have looked startled. Eliyas continued, "Stanton said you talked to him with proper military politeness. He doesn't get that much in his job. The Army takes care of its own, Lieutenant. At least most of us do. Remember that."

"I don't think I'll forget any time soon, Captain." I nodded.

Dawkins dropped me at the flight dispatch center. I stuck my head in and grinned, "Sergeant Major, thank you for a much more pleasant evening than expected. I'm glad it's folks like you who really run the Army. Any flights for a vagabond Lieutenant?"

Stanton returned my grin. "Hell, Lieutenant, you clean up to look almost human. I hear you hold your own at the bar."

"Lies, Sergeant Major! All lies. My limit is three drinks. It's just that I lose count after two."

He laughed heartily, looked at his sheets, and said, "They're gonna love you at Division. Got a Chinook leaving for Lai Khe in twenty minutes with room for one."

"Book me, Sergeant Major, and again, thanks!"

The view when flying in a Chinook includes a small patch of sky out the tail opening and the interior of the helicopter. Not truly inspiring, but, given the haze inside my mind, not a concern either. Per my infantry training, I closed my eyes and napped.

Lai Khe was a large, dusty red slash in the midst of an otherwise green landscape. I stepped to the side of the runway and watched two Cobra gunships take off. Greased lightning in the air, turtles on the ground, they tilted their nose forward and moved slowly down the runway a few feet in the air, struggling to gain the speed to ascend and fly. Technology is amazing to watch, particularly the kind that can save your life.

I hitched a ride to the 1st of the 16th and reported in. Colonel Bradford seemed to be one of the "take care of our own" types.

"You seem to have had some disagreements with your Captain and your Colonel. Care to comment?"

"Disagreements? Only one, Sir."

"Oh! And that would be?"

"I won't let my men get killed when it isn't necessary. I will accomplish my mission and sacrifice my life and my men's lives if required, but I won't let them die for stupidity. I can't live with that. I won't do it."

The Colonel thought for a moment. "Well, others may have seen that differently where you came from, but here everyone gets a fresh slate. Do your job to the standard you've just expressed, and I believe we'll get along okay. Dismissed."

In the outer office the Colonel's Executive Officer said, "A moment, Lieutenant. I don't want to make a big deal of this but the officers in the 1st of the 16th have sort of agreed upon a standard of being clean shaven, and—"

"What this?" I interrupted and stroked the mustache I had been growing for giggles. "Sir, this is being lazy and silly while on TDY. Point me to a razor, it's gone."

"Very good, Lieutenant. You should do okay here."

Half an hour later, clean shaven, I stowed my gear in Company B's Officer's Barracks. The Colonel had told me I would have command of the Second Platoon. Mickey Six Lives!

****

Chapter 15 ~ The Playmate was Golden – the Star Bronze

And there, in all her golden glory, she stood; Miss August 1967, my all time favorite playmate, DeDe Lind. Her blonde mane was topped with a yellow bow tie ribbon. Her beautiful brown eyes glistened. A brown sweater – the only clothing in the picture – draped over her shoulders. One sleeve just touched her perky, perfect naked breasts. She held a dart in her hand for the board behind her. Her pert, undraped bottom topped graceful legs, and her foot perched on a balance board with a badminton cock at her foot. Five feet two inches, ninety-eight pounds of absolute All-American pulchritude. Her favorite foods were steak, prime rib and salad, and her turn-on was chocolate chip ice cream. I was hers forever.

Bravo's spacious company area held separate barracks for enlisted men, NCOs and officers, who even got a private closet, a bed with a mattress and a locker in a seven by ten room. High class lodging. Rrrright. The piece de resistance was the officer's lounge: a twelve foot long, well stocked bar, with the cherry on top of the hot fudge sundae being the décor. Situated in virtually every available location on the walls, in split-bamboo frames, Playboy Centerfolds lit up the room.

DeDe's companions on the wall included Playmates of the Year Lisa Baker for 1967, a brunette lovely; Allison Parks for 1966, a tall, amply endowed redhead; and even Christa Speck for 1962, a German girl who made Allison look underprivileged. The first Philippine Playmate, the gorgeous Gwen Wong, and half a dozen others beamed down from their frames, but DeDe had it all for me. Her centerfold spread included her comment on the war, "I don't see how we can get out (of Vietnam). But—perhaps because I'm a girl and young—the thought of losing our young men way over there seems awful. I just hope that it is really worth it."

I didn't think the war was worth much, but I placed a high value on this little bombshell. She was all that home could be in my wildest fantasies. I would definitely fight a war for her.

B Company was in the field and not due back for a day or so. I was given the time off to rest and get ready to return to duty. I visited supply to pick up a weapon. Even in base camp, 'Nam was not a place to go unarmed.

Supply Sergeant Brown allowed in his Georgia drawl, "You can have any 16 you want, Lieutenant."

"Thanks, Sarge. I'll look them over and pick one." I proceeded to examine the available weapons. There's not much to differentiate one M-16 from another – black plastic, ugly – but highly effective in the right hands. I went around one rack to the next and there, in all her dark glory, she stood; a genuine, slightly used but beautiful Car-15. The M-15 Carbine is the short version of the M-16, measuring barely twenty inches with its collapsing stock closed and its short barrel. More a machine pistol than a rifle, it weighed less than the already light M-16 – slightly less accurate at long distances – but otherwise functioned the same. Featuring weight reduction while operating in a super tropical climate with no loss in firepower. What a concept!

"I'll take this one, Sarge," I raised the Car-15 over the rack.

"Well, Suh! You can certainly take it if you want. But, Suh, I has to warn you. That piece, she's called 'One Shot Pee'! You might wish to reconsider, Suh."

"And how did this fine weapon receive such a colorful moniker, Sarge? If I may ask?"

"Well, Suh—it seems as how, if you fire that weapon, it shoots one round, it jams—and you—pee!" Brown chortled. "Suh."

"Uhmmm. I see. Well, I think I'll give it a try anyway. I'd like a bipod for it."

"Suh? A bipod? For a Car-15? Whatever for, Suh? If you needs a bipod to support it, you is already in the deep doodoo. So to speak, Suh."

"Not for support, Sarge. On 'bush, the bipod keeps the muzzle out of the dirt and sets it in a position where it is easy to grab and already pointing up at any standing target. Little things help you stay alive in combat."

"Yassuh, I sees that. But—how's it gonna help you iffen it only fires once. Charlie don't be scared of you peeing on him. You know, Suh?"

"True, Sarge!" I laughed, "True." I shook the Car-15. "I suspect this baby hasn't had a thorough cleaning in many moons. Properly cleaned and maintained, I think she'll do the job for me. Anyway, let's give it a try."

I spent four hours that afternoon cleaning that piece. Filthy, nasty, dirty, not cleaned for a generation – that about covers it. When I finished – fully cleaned, fully oiled – I expected she would fire just fine. I did plan a trip to the firing range to test her just to be sure. No sense being a fool about it. Little things, like your weapon firing, help you stay alive in combat.

A general assembly on the Division parade grounds was called for 0900 hours the next day. General Ward definitely had some words.

The short version was "Out of the kindness of our hearts and to protect you mush-headed idiots from disease and dying, we established a steam bath and massage parlor here on base. Two blithering idiots who couldn't control themselves, raped two of the girls when they couldn't buy sex. They have been arrested. Court martial and appropriate punishment will follow. The rest of you yahoos, listen up! We are guests in this country and you will behave properly or else. Pay for your massages and, for your sex if you must, but, by God, stay within the law! Dismissed."

We have a steam bath and massage parlor. Amazing! Don't agree with the General on guests though. Where I come from we only shoot at revenooers, not guests.

I stopped at the PX, picked up a ration of M&M Peanuts and a large coke and hiked back to the barracks. The liquor behind the bar was tempting, but I hadn't paid for any of it and did not yet know the house rules. I refrained. Instead, I pigged out on a pound of chocolate while closely examining DeDe and her pals. Later in the day, for fun, I cleaned all of my equipment including another cleaning for One-Shot and asked Sergeant Brown to order a new pair of Jungle boots for me. Mine were decaying at the edges. I didn't look forward to wearing new boots like a FNG or to breaking them in, but having my current ones fall off my feet in the jungle did not seem like a good idea.

B Company returned to base at 0 Lunch Hundred hours the next day, and I dined with Captain Trent Ryan of Boston and my fellow Officers, Lt. Ben Grabowski, First Platoon, Lt. Jack Ferland, Third Platoon, and Lt. Isaac Swain, Heavy Weapons Platoon. Captain Ryan, despite a thick New England accent, was not pompous or stuck up and appeared to be a good, competent leader. The others came across as pros.

After lunch, assuring me we would talk later, the Captain turned me over to Second Platoon, Platoon Sergeant Rich Avery.

Avery was a shade under six feet, well built, and carried himself with the confidence of a veteran. He was twenty-two, with thousand-year old eyes that had seen all there was but could handle more if necessary. I liked him immediately.

We sat on the sandbags surrounding the officer's billet. I sipped an iced tea from lunch. Avery popped the top on his beer, saluted with the can and drank. "Well, LT, you're getting a good combat platoon. The men are experienced. No FNGs at the moment, though we should see some soon. No real, individual problem child . . ."

His pause was an adequate message. "So what collective problem or problem children do we have, Sarge?"

"Well, it hasn't gotten serious yet, but it's building. A third of the platoon is black, Sir, and the tension is pretty much constant between blacks and whites. I don't know what to do about it. Lt. Meredith, who you're replacing didn't see it or didn't want to see it, but it's there. I don't think we should ignore it, but I just don't know what to do." He shook his head, clearly troubled.

"Well I'm not sure I have any answers, Sarge. I think the problem is a lot bigger than you, me, and the entire damn army. I do know that I've never seen a problem get better by being ignored. So we'll work on it." I took off my cap and wiped the sweat from my forehead. "The main focus has to be to keep them solid as combat troops and keep them alive, no matter what else happens. Keep them alive! Agreed?"

"Absolutely! LT. Absolutely."

"Good. Tell me about the squad leaders and the black and white leaders."

Avery stood. "How about taking the boys to the rifle range? I'll tell you about them on the way. You can check them out, and test your legendary 'Instrument of Death'.

I grinned. "Word of my having 'One Shot' precedes me. Huh?"

Avery shrugged and went to round up the troops. I rounded up 'One Shot'. The ride to the range was four kilometers, giving us time to talk.

"Corporal Danvers has first squad. He's solid, a good leader and a good combat troop. He's white and seems to handle blacks and whites okay. Stems from Kaneckteecutt, Yoooo Esss of Amurica in the world, but no one holds that against him.

"Spec. 4 Lee is another story. He's got second squad, at least, for now—"

"Bad leader? Poor combat?" I asked. "Or both?"

"Well...," Avery thought for a moment. "Can't say he's any problem in a fight, but leader don't quite describe it. He's a Virginian and one of several hundred thousand descendents of Robert E. He would not be described as being comfortable with either Yankees or blacks, if you know what I mean."

"I'm afraid I do. Let me guess. He's well liked enough that removing him from command would cause as much trouble as keeping him."

"Word was you're pretty sharp, LT. Looks like the grapevine may have it right."

"Wunderbar! Let's hope you and I can make it work out for all of 'em. Tell me about the leaders among the brothers."

"Ahh! That would be brother Young and brother Alexander. Both Privates. Young is the tall, slender quiet killer in second squad, who is the pressure point with Lee. Good man in the bush and not a trouble maker. He's not one to back away, though. If there is a political leader, so to speak, among the blacks, it's him."

"Hmm! Given a choice without the race problem, would you want Lee or Young to run second?"

Avery didn't hesitate. "Young. No question. Better leader, better soldier."

"Okay. Think about how we might approach that without starting an internal firefight. What about Alexander?"

The trucks rolled to a stop. Avery opened the door and looked over at me. "Hot Volatile! Handle with great care! Creates real passion among the blacks. Not command material. But...."

"But?"

"I like him, LT. He's just damn likable. Beats me why. But..." He shrugged.

"Interesting." I waved towards the range and spoke loudly enough for the troops to hear. "Sergeant, set them on line and let's see who knows which end of the barrel the bullets exit from."

Within minutes Avery had them on line and the Range Master was popping up targets under my direction. "Short Left. Long Center. Medium Right." And so on. The fire was accurate and well controlled, demonstrating they could do it well when the bullets were going in only one direction. Moderately comforting.

A series of drills completed, the men stepped back from the firing range to reload their magazines, and I stepped forward to test 'One Shot'. Ignoring comments and snickers from the crowd, I assumed a firing position. On command from the Range Master I fired a burst.

Bang...

...Nothing!

A jam!

"Damn!" under my breath. I worked to clear the chamber.

"Hey, LT! Better get a bayonet for that rig. You'll need some kind of weapon that actually works when you're in the bush!"

"Maybe a slingshot would help!"

The raucous laughter confirmed the remarks were on target. I cleared the chamber, seated the next round and ripped off the remaining eighteen rounds in one burst. In rapid, combat speed succession, I loaded and fired four consecutive magazines with single twenty round bursts. I stopped and listened. Quiet, near silence.

I faced the men and grinned, "I don't know. Seems okay to me."

Before we left the range, I had Avery gather the men together. Time for my introductory elocution.

"Men, my call sign will not be Mike Six. It will be Mickey Six. I bring that with me because I know how mickey mouse this whole damn war is. The call sign will remind you that I understand what you are going through. It will damn well also remind you that I will not tolerate mickey mouse behavior from any of you for any reason."

There were some smiles and someone suppressed a giggle.

"My job, in order, is to lead you to accomplish our mission, and to do all I can to get all of you out of here alive so you can go home and complain about how mickey mouse this whole damn war was. Your job is to surrender your attitudes, your righteous anger, and, to some extent, your freedom to make your own decisions. I lead, you follow and we all go home. That's the deal.

"I'm combat tested. I don't play games. I won't accept them from you. I'll try to protect you from games the Brass plays, but we will complete the mission. We count the cost after the fight, not before, and plan to raise a glass as brothers back in the world.

"Questions?" I met their eyes and found good vibes. "Good. Back to the Company. Clean all weapons and gear before supper. I will inspect. Weapon no clean, no supper. Sergeant, move them out."

That evening in our lounge we checked out the bar supplies – Captain Ryan made a mean Bloody Mary – and each other. Somewhere past the midnight hour, Swain suggested a knife throwing contest with Playmate targets. He threw first. His knife clanged sideways off the wall next to DeDe.

"I protest!" I hollered leaping, sort of, to my feet. "DeDe must be exempt from throws. Gentlemen, we can not be throwing at and damaging the very fount of beauty that is she—DeDe. I—Where was I?"

"Rambling about founts." Ryan led the laughter. "Think you can do better, Mickey?"

"Hell, Mon Capitan, I can do better even with that hunk of junk metal that Swain calls a knife. It might help him open a c-rat but he might as well fall on it as throw it."

"You're on!" Ryan enthused. "Twenty says you can't stick it in the Playmate of your choice. The knife that is...."

Amid maniacal laughter, I retrieved Swain's sorry excuse for a blade and walked back to the bar. The knife was way top heavy and unsuited for throwing. I took it in my right hand with the blade held up my arm past my wrist and the pommel outside my grip. I turned and threw underhanded at Christa. Thrown hard and allowing only a half turn the blade lodged between Christa's founts. Amazing! You'll never make that throw again. Be sure to take the credit and not admit to luck. P.S.C. rambled on.

I accepted the cheers and the winnings, made a few more good throws using my knife, and DeDe remained unblemished.

The next morning, Captain Ryan sent me to Battalion HQ for an observation flight to check the area my platoon would ambush that night.

The OH-6A Cayuse or 'Loach' was a light observation helicopter, seating a pilot and observer. Unfortunately, the light part included both armor and weapons. The pilot was very short, DEROS in two weeks. He refused to fly below five thousand feet. While I couldn't criticize his caution, observations from a mile high in the air leave something to be desired. You can identify features easily enough, but details such as elevation, thickness of underbrush, and what lies under the lovely green sea of flora are not discernible. Immediately outside the gate there was an acre or so of trees, then scrub brush area leading to railroad tracks. The route to the ambush followed the tracks through some heavier bush and veered away after a kilometer to a spot half a klick away where a trio of foot trails converged. What I didn't see would create a number of challenges for my first expedition with my new platoon.

We exited Lai Khe from the South Gate and immediately turned due West into the trees. Fifteen minutes later we were trudging through eighteen inches of water. Soon, it became a swamp with sludge sucking us down and water rapidly deepening to a nearly impassable level. I was considering back tracking, despite the cost in time and ignoring the un-uttered vibes of disgust and skepticism about my leadership, when the point man rounded a tree and spied dry land.

On dry ground, the men checked each other for leeches, while I re-set our route. I combined two legs into a straighter line and we headed directly for the railroad tracks. We were pretty much on time when we reached them. First squad on the right and second on the left side of the tracks, we followed the easy branch of the march. We made good time to the bridge. I sent the point across to check. I didn't want the platoon exposed like sitting ducks with no place to take cover.

Alexander called back, "No company over here, Mickey, but that damn bridge is too shaky for many men let alone a train. Five or six guys at a time would be best."

Following his advice, we crossed and marched on. The brush grew thicker and both sides frequently veered as much as fifty meters from the track. After one such lengthy veer, I was stunned to see the tracks had gradually sunk into a four meter deep valley. The platoon was split by the chasm. I called a halt and tried to calculate how far back up the tracks we needed to go. After a minute, Problem Solving Central spoke. Fuck it! Climb down one side and up the other. There's lots of grass and vines to climb down and up. Should be no problem.

I gave the orders and we moved to cross over. Problem solving was half right. Climbing down was no problem. Up was—up. A rifle and eighty pounds of equipment meant the average grunt had to haul about two hundred and fifty pounds up a cliff more than twice his height. The grass and vines made it possible—barely. Half the men had reached the top but the area we were climbing was nearly bare from vegetation pulling out by its roots. Two men had taken unpleasant but not seriously damaging falls. I moved the effort twenty meters down the track. I was last up.

We made good time the rest of the way and set up as dark thudded down. We laid out the bush on the far side of the intersecting trails along the Southwest and Northern paths facing the Eastern section. Contact appeared most likely along the North/South route. So we laid out our claymores accordingly, then settled in for the long watch.

0300. Double your pleasure, double your pain. Contact approached us from both the East and Southwest. Two groups of VC meeting on top of our pointy heads. Avery had the end of the Southwest line. I controlled the East and Northern approaches. The VC on the East trail were closest and would enter the kill zone first. The trick would be to get both groups into the kill zone before triggering the 'bush.

Problem Solving Central chimed in, You can see well enough in the moonlight. Take out the point with your knife. Killing him with no sound will create confusion and allow the other group time to walk into the trap. Not a sane plan but a good one.
I passed the word to hold fire until my command. I eased my knife from its sheath, moved "one shot" to the side resting on its bipod, wiped my hand on my pants leg, got a knee under me, took a good throwing grip, and—waited.

The best spot for the throw would be at that slight curve in the trail—No, a step further would make it fifteen feet, near a perfect turn and a half for the throw. Aim at the high chest area—Never thrown at a man—Stop that!—Never—Focus! There he is— another step—Now!

I rose on one knee, turned my left shoulder towards the target, pointed my left index finger at my imagined button on his chest and threw. I followed through down to the ground and reached back for "one shot" as the knife spun a slow one and a half turns and found its target. He grunted and staggered but remained erect. His trail man moved towards him. I looked right to the Southwest group. A few more steps and we would have them all. I turned back to my kill. Time ceased. The trail man reached the point man as he staggered a step and gurgled something. The trail man shouted and so did I.

"Fire!"

KRACKITA!

I cut loose a full magazine on the two in front of me and Hades erupted all around...

BOOM! FLASH! KRACKITA! BOOM!

...M-16s, AK-47s, M-60s, and claymores played their deadly song.

It ended, after an eternity, in less than a minute. The smell of cordite death wafted through the air. The silence was intense. Sitreps came in. No injured on our side. All visible enemy dead. We waited, tense but in control.

I called in and reported an estimated seven enemy dead with no visible movement. We'd wait for daylight to check the kill zone. I passed the word "Fresh magazines and stay alert." I hoped I could retrieve my knife. The night passed.

We found nine bodies and five blood trails in the morning. Little bastards are hard to kill for sure. A quick check on the blood trails produced the standard results—nothing. I called in nine enemy KIA and we rucked up to move out.

I got my knife back. I had caught him in the lungs, He and his trail man had at least thirty rounds in them. Some of them mine. I was pleased that my plan had worked. None of my men are injured. I have my knife. Nothin' else matters.

We neared the point of march to turn towards the swamp when Young approached me.

"Mickey? Are you open to an easier route?"

"Troop, easier is a positive if we don't get killed doing it. What have you got?"

"Well, we might have trouble if the Brass catch us, but won't be no danger. There's a hole in the fence we can slip through."

"Are you kidding me? Lai Khe has a hole in its perimeter fence that we can just walk through?"

"Well, yes, Sir. It's just a small hole, but we can get through it."

"What can I say? Lead on, MacDuff, lead on!"

"Say Mac what?"

"Take us through the fence, Young. Lead the way."

"Roger."

Fifteen minutes later, one soldier held back a section of fence that allowed a big enough gap for the rest to pass through one at a time. I was half way up the hill to the road when I spied the jeep moving our way. The front fender had a blue license plate with two silver stars on it. I hoped General Ward was just out for a ride.

No such luck. The jeep stopped. The General stepped out and motioned to me. I hustled up to him.

"Good Morning, Sir!" I saluted.

"Lieutenant, I hesitate to ask, but what the heck is going on here?"

"Sir, we're returning from ambush—a successful ambush with nine enemy KIA— and we discovered and are exploring an apparent lapse in our defenses. Sir."

"Lapse? Is that what we're calling it these days?"

Exercising keen judgment, I simply shrugged my shoulders.

The general sighed, "Get your men through and close it as best you can. I'll have the engineers get on it." He paused, "Did you really kill nine?"

"Bodies on the ground, Sir."

"Good work."

"Uhh, Mickey? Could we have a few minutes with you privately?" The speaker was Young. Alexander was with him.

"Sure. Step into my office." I waved them to the side of the Officer's barracks, where a sandbag wall provided seating. "What's up, fellas?"

"We got word from some brothers up north—we thought you might be interested in." Alexander's expression indicated he was unsure I wanted to hear.

I said, "Okay. What's the word?"

"The asshole that took over your platoon and your old Captain have reinstated the charges against Simmons and gave Collins an Article Fifteen for protesting."

"Awww shit!"

"There's more." Young interjected before I could wax more eloquent. "Fielder and Greenwell got fragged—in the Pit."

"Uhh," I struggled to find a coherent thought. "How bad...."

"Word is they were fucked up, but not killed."

"Can't say that thrills me or kills me. Any word on who did it? Wait! Never mind, don't want to know. I don't even want to know if you know." I looked at two blank faces and just shook my head.

"Trouble is it won't help Simmons no matter what." I stared into Young's eyes. "He deserved better than that."

"Sure, Mickey. Don't we all?"

"Yeah."

"Something else we'd like to talk about, Mickey."

"Hopefully not more news like you just delivered."

"No, but it might prevent a situation arising." Young's tone had dropped and become conspiratorial and edgy.

"Avoiding fraggings and court martials could well be considered noble goals. What's on your mind?"

Surprisingly, it was Alexander who spoke. "It's Lee, Sir. The brothers don't like him and don't trust him. We want a change. We thought you might help us out."

"Did you?" I stared at both of them. Neither flinched. "Let's keep the record straight. I am not here to keep everyone feeling good."

"We know that." Alexander interrupted, "But—"

"But nothing!" I cut him off. "My job is to complete our mission and keep you guys alive, if possible. Do you understand?"

"Yeah. Yes, Sir." They answered together.

"Okay. That understood, I don't give a damn that you don't like Lee. Comprehende?"

"Yes, Sir." They both nodded. Alexander with a sullen look.

"Now then, tell me why it is that you do not trust Lee."

Slightly surprised, Young spoke first. "He doesn't treat the brothers right, Mickey. He's a southern, racist jerk."

"I need specifics. Any action I take has to be based on facts and fair to everybody. You're telling me you perceive an attitude. You need to give me more."

"He always gives the shit assignments to blacks, Sir." Alexander spit, "It ain't just attitude."

"Okay. Think before you answer this. Is your statement true in the field and the rear? Or mainly just the rear?"

They looked at each other for an extended moment. Finally, Young spoke. "Truth is, Mickey, it's mainly in base camp. In the field he picks my man here," He slapped Alexander on the shoulder. "for point pretty often. But, honestly so would I."

"All right. I will watch the situation. In fact I've already discussed it with Sergeant Avery. I'll make a change if and when I think it is necessary for the performance of the platoon in completing our mission and staying alive. Not until then. Understood?"

"Yes, Sir."

"And, guys," I paused. "You spread the word among the bloods about the order of business. I expect everyone to do their job."

They both nodded.

"Last thing." They looked at me wondering what next. "Thank you for bringing the word about Simmons and Collins. They're good guys. I hope they make out okay."

Young and Alexander both grinned and saluted at the same time. "Yes, Sir."

"New blood, Mickey!" Avery grinned, "Fucking raw meat, tender and young. We picked up three for Second Platoon. Takes us to twenty-nine. Damn near fully staffed."

"Right, Sarge! A few more and you and I can stay in base camp and play checkers, which I'm going to do soon anyway."

"Hey, you just got here and you're thinking of leaving. Don't you love me?"

"Ahh, Mon Cheri, my love has no end. Right up to Rest and Recreation in Hawaii and returning to a soft job in the rear. I plan on being a full scale REMF."

"Well, you can go on R&R but you ain't leaving the Second until your replacement is here. I refuse to run it again."

"Refuse all you want, son. My time comes and I be outta here. Now let's look at these fine replacement troopers you've grabbed for us."

Raw meat, tender and young just about covered it for the first two. A couple of nineteen year old draftees, reflecting that their failure to hide from 'Nam in college was related to their intellects. I assigned these shining stars, one each to first and second squads.

Raw meat, tender and young did not quite fit the third man—boy—child. Freshly hatched from the egg this morning was more like it. The youth in front of me would do ably as Mark Twain's model for Huck Finn—in his early years. Flaming reddish orange hair, freckles by the bushel, thin boned, aw shucks from the Iowa ground up. Precious!

From the vast maturity of my twenty-one years plus four months combat experience, I could not contain myself, "Son, how the hell old are you?"

"Sir, Private Hennings is eighteen years old, Sir." The private's young face carried all the challenge of a child who held an illicit lollypop and would fight tooth and nail to keep it.

"Okay, uhh, Harold is it? Do you prefer Harold or Harry?"

"Sir, the Private prefers Harry, Sir."

"Fine, Harry then, and ease up on the Sirs. Military protocol is a bit looser in the 'Nam." I paused while some of the tension released from his body. "Trouble is, Harry, I just don't believe you. No way are you eighteen."

"I am too! I'm old enough to be here and fight for my country. You can't send me back home."

Oh great! A patriotic little shit on top of everything. "Harry, that just ain't gonna cut it. It is very obvious that you aren't eighteen. Now come clean."

"Sir, the United State Army accepts that I am eighteen. Why won't you, Sir?"

"Harry, cool it with the Sirs. Call me LT or Mickey when we're just talking. And, keep in mind I am far smarter than the United States Army. Now tell me the truth."

"Eighteen. I am eighteen."

I looked at the intense spirit encased before me in such juvenile form and knew I could beat him or trick him and still would be unlikely to have the truth. This boy wanted to fight for his country. I made a decision I would come to eternally regret.

"Harry, as you get to know me you will find out I don't play games and I keep my word. I need to know your true age." He stiffened. "But, I give you my word, I'll let you stay here and fight with us."

He hesitated.

"I need to know, Harry. The truth. Nothing else works out here."

"I get to stay and fight?"

"Yes. My word on it."

"Seventeen, Sir"

"Harry, I need the truth. No lies between me and my men."

"Sixteen, Sir. But I can handle the job. You've gotta let me stay and fight. You've got to! You promised!"

Sixteen! Doubtful, but probably as close as I would get. "All right, Harry. I'm going to assign you to be my R.T.O. It means carrying a Prick 25 but it keeps you close to me. My standing order to you is that you are to do what I do, instantly without question. If I hit the dirt, you eat mud. If I run, you imitate a rabbit and keep pace. Understood?

"Sir, Yes S—ummm, thank you."

"That's okay. Go see Sergeant Avery. He'll get you sorted out."

God help me. Look what you've got me into now. Shit! P.S.C., uninvited, chimed in, Break your word and turn the little fool in.

Anguish shook my soul. You know I can't. Leave it alone.

"Damn, Colonel Bradford gets replaced by Colonel O'Donnel, and we draw a Battalion Op on Day One." Avery shrugged. "Hope the new half bird isn't a half-ass."

"Hell, most Light Colonels resemble the rear end of a north bound horse." I grinned. "Don't get your hopes up. You know it all falls on our heads in the end."

"Sure, and a lovely point yours comes to, Sir." Avery grinned back.

"Head 'em up and move 'em out, Sarge. Trucks to our luxury flight await." Forty minutes later we were airborne as part of a battalion-minus force of four hundred men.

The LZ was cold and everyone landed without any trouble. Under new leadership, the confusion in moving off the LZ and into the jungle was excessive. Two hours after I hopped off the chopper I took my first step into the underbrush.

A hundred meters into the bush the sniping started. More nervous making than effective, it still slowed and worsened our day. Combined with three unscheduled changes of direction, oppressive heat, and bush that really didn't want to be penetrated, a couple of rounds zinging your way every hour was quite adequate to elevate tension.

Because of the route changes and delays, our new Colonel, as any dummy would, pushed it and had us still moving at 'Night Thud'. After a misguided attempt to "circle" the troops, word came down to settle in place, set out claymores and keep quiet to avoid alerting the enemy to our presence. The last order made it very difficult to suppress our laughter, but we tried.

The Captain came back from a conference with the Colonel and advised me that Bravo had point and because of the physical position we were in Second would have the honor of leading the way. The Colonel wanted to move at first light and was a wee bit disgruntled over the time it had taken to clear the LZ.

I offered to move and surrender the honor to any other deserving platoon or non-deserving platoon for that matter.

Ryan responded, "No, that's quite all right, Lieutenant, and before you say any more, remember the Colonel wants us to be quiet."

"Right." I whispered through a giggle.

We settled in for the night. I tried to rest, drifting on the edge of sleep, unable to attain blessed unconsciousness. A glowing light about thirty meters away intruded on my attempt to generate a dream about DeDe. The alarm went off. That light is real!

KRACKITA! KRACKITA!

I rolled onto my belly and grabbed "one shot." The M-60 tearing up the night was my First Squad. I had no clue why they were dancing. "Harry, get me Mike Five now!"

Moments later, Avery's calm voice assured me, "All cool, Mickey. Couple of VC wandered down the trail and turned on a flashlight. Apparently to check their map. I think we nailed them and it don't look like they were a point element for anybody."

"Good. Stay on it." I waited for the call from upstairs.

"Mickey, what the hell is going on? The Colonel wants to know what all the racket is for."

"Sorry, Captain. A couple of VC walked down the trail and turned on their flashlight, so my guys turned on their sixty. Haven't yet figured out how to do that quietly."

My explanation satisfied the Colonel, and I settled in with one eye open a bit wider than most nights.

First light revealed two blood trails. No bodies. Avery gave a compass heading and, Second Squad on point, we moved out sharply. Best to keep even Light Colonels happy. Within two hundred meters, we hit elephant grass. Aptly named. Nine feet tall and higher, with green warty skin and razor sharp edges. The stuff was not as entertwined as young bamboo, but you could track the guys in the lead following their blood trails sliced by the grass. The only passage through it was the one you hacked. An enemy could literally be three feet away and invisible. Definitely a pucker factor. Personally, I don't get what the elephants see in it.

We hacked. The Colonel griped at the Captain, who griped at me. We hacked snail slow, but we hacked; we chopped; we macheted; we sweated from heat and fear. It was the best it was going to be. I pushed the guys as hard as I could.

"Mickey, the Colonel wanted us to surround Ap Ben Choa by 0830. We're running late." Ryan's speaking, from a few feet behind, startled me. Concentrating forward on what we might encounter, I hadn't noticed him coming from behind.

"Sir, I hate to disappoint the Man but the terrain is a bit – resistant, shall we say."

"Ask me if he cares." Ryan's face belied the sting of the comment. "I need to tell him something."

"Well, you could tell him to go—"

"Yahoo! Land ho." The yell from the point interrupted.

We were out of the high grass and heading into the trees. I turned to the Captain as the Colonel joined us.

"Lieutenant, what the hell is causing the damn delay?" he snorted.

"Sir, we just reached the end of the elephant grass, and . ."

"Look out! Watch it!" Yells mingled with loud streams of Vietnamese gibberish.

"Grenade!"

KRACKITA! KRACKITA! KRACKITA!

M-16s erupted. I hauled butt towards the action. Yells of "Cease fire! Hold Up!" echoed.

Exiting the high grass, I saw a half dozen of my men crowded around a lump on the ground—a man, likely dead. My internal alarm blared for a four engine fire.

"Get your asses spread out! What the hell is wrong with you guys? One grenade could waste all of you! Move it!"

They quickly dispersed leaving Squad Leader Lee next to the body.

KRACK! KRACK! KRACK!

Single rounds from an AK. Everyone ducked. Lee dove forward out of sight.

KRACKITA! BOOM! KRACKITA!

Return fire suppressed the incoming rounds. I dashed forward to Lee's position.

He lay halfway into a well concealed bunker. Blood darkened his left pant's leg. I grabbed the back of his belt.

"You okay, Troop?"

"Shit! Pull me out."

I complied. Lee screamed. I slid past Lee covering the bunker entrance.

"Nobody home. Thank God!" Lee stuttered.

I looked at him.

"I saw the gook rise to fire. Figured my choices were to stand and die or jump into the hole and hope no one was ta home. Lucky me, I guess." His smile was more grimace than grin, but I agreed with him.

The medic hustled up, checked Lee's wound and reached for the bandages. "Possible million dollar wound, Mickey." He said. "Out of service a while for sure."

I nodded. Young was already taking charge of the squad, yelling at them, "Spread out! Get down. Lock and load, ready to fight—"

"Young!"

He looked over at my shout. "The squad is yours. Keep on keeping on."

He waved an acknowledgment and turned back to his men. I looked around and saw the Battalion Executive Officer, Major Lawrence, standing by the enemy KIA and jabbing his finger at Sergeant Avery. I hurried over.

"Sergeant, you men have killed a civilian, a noncombatant, you'll . . ."

"Excuse me, Sir. What's going on here?"

"What's going on here, Lieutenant?" The Major's tone was steeped in arrogance. My already tight back muscles hardened to iron. "What's going on is your men have committed a criminal act by killing an unarmed civilian. They—"

"How did you determine that?" I interrupted.

"Why it's obvious. This man has no weapon. He has to be a civilian."

"Really?" I looked at the corpse. No weapon was visible in his vicinity. I reached to my webbing where I carried my grenades in a medical bandage pouch. This kept the grenade's spoon secured so an accidental pulling of the pin would not discombobulate my day with a messy explosion. I pulled out a grenade and dropped it on the dead guy. I looked the Major in the eye.

"Why, Sir, he was armed. Obviously a dedicated enemy soldier."

"Damn, Lieutenant! You can't get away with that."

"Why not, Sir? I have about twenty hardened, combat veterans who'll testify he had a grenade when they shot him. They probably wouldn't take too kindly to anyone saying otherwise."

"LT's right," Avery confirmed. Others voiced their agreement.

As the Major tried to digest our words, Captain Ryan tapped my shoulder.

"Mickey, the Colonel wants you to put your platoon on line and move forward to the village."

"Well, shit! He wants us to stroll through Charlies' hometown with freaking bunkers everywhere. Christ, Captain! There could be a whole damn battalion waiting."

"Sure could. Get organized and get moving." Ryan grinned.

"Roger, Sir—Any chance we could get some artillery first?"

Ryan shook his head.

"Air support?"

"Move it."

"On the move, Sir." I picked up my grenade. "How about another platoon beside me?"

"Mickey—"

"Right. Avery get 'em on line. Second on the left, first right, command in the middle. Sections to move forward on my command."

I left Major Lawrence standing—mouth open—mind empty, grabbed Hennings' arm, "C'mon, Harry. Stay close. Do as I do, and do it right away." We moved.

I took the mike and directed, "First squad prepare to move." I paused a few seconds, "First squad move." They got out about five meters and dropped down ready to cover the next group.

I repeated the process with second, then the center and back to first. I mixed up the order so Charlie couldn't fix on a pattern.

We advanced slowly. Molasses-on-a-cold-day-slow. Controlling by radio proved frustratingly cumbersome. Though we drew no fire, Charles was a palpable presence.

Clearing the bunkers as we found them involved firing into them with rifles and using an occasional grenade, if the bunker was extra large. Heat, tension, and the snail's pace eroded attention and discipline. One of my men tripped and let loose a burst from his M-16 in a decidedly incorrect direction—right across my bow.

"All weapons on safety," I ordered. "Let's not do Charlie's work for him."

The pace slowed further. I had to get us moving. I threw the microphone to Harry, and in my best command voice, shouted, "Everyone listen up. No more radio for moving. Just listen for the dulcet tones of my voice. We'll get through."

I paused letting that sink in. "Second Squad—Move!" I bellowed.

They did. I yelled my commands. The pace picked up. Second Squad discovered a rice cache. I reported it to Ryan and suggested burning it. We kept moving.

I jumped up to fire into a bunker, squeezed the trigger—nothing. I crushed the Trigger—nothing! I realized my safety was on. Without taking pressure off the trigger, I turned the selector to full auto, twenty rounds sprayed all over hell and back. Sheepishly, I slapped in another magazine and moved on.

Minutes later, I moved forward to fire into another bunker and stepped into a hole. With calm accuracy and a properly set selector, I snapped five rounds into the bunker. Then I looked down. I was standing in a second bunker. I jumped straight up and fired fifteen rounds down between my legs before landing.

Harry looked at me like a kid seeing his first circus clown. I shook my head and shrugged.

We moved, heat pressed down, constant shouts, cordite fouled the air, explosions deafened our senses, knifed our brains, death lurked in every shadow, but we moved.

I ran about five meters with Harry behind on my right struggling to keep up. I went down on one knee, too tired to even go down all the way. Harry stopped and stood behind me. There it was, the mother of all bunkers, twice the size of the rest.

"Hold up!" I hollered. "Possible command bunker." I worked a grenade loose, while examining the terrain.

No overhead branches to knock down a throw. Good. A flat area in front of the bunker—perfect for bouncing the grenade in. No problem. Classic.

Grasping the grenade, I put my finger through the pin. I stood with perfect throwing form, pulled the pin, yelled, "Fire in the hole!" and launched a picture throw.

It sailed through the air—Perfect! It hit less than a foot from the opening—Perfect! It bounced—"Shit!" Straight left. Decidedly—Not perfect! It lay close enough to kill but too far to grab and flip into the bunker in time.

"Cover! Hit the dirt!" I screamed and spun left. The soldier on that side dove away crossing his legs and covering his head and neck with his arms.

I passed a hundred and eighty degrees, Harry stood, mouth open, eyes glazed, staring at the grenade that was about to blow him away.

"Oh shit!" I managed. I completed my pirouette and launched into the air; caught Harry with a textbook side body block; knocked him to the ground; bounced once and covered my head with my arms. I held my breath for—approximately six hours—waiting for the grenade's four second fuse to blow. Nothing.

Damn! A dud. I raised my head—KABLAM!

Shrapnel, cordite and dust enveloped me. Something jabbed my elbow. You are such a stupid man!

I swiveled my head to the right. Harry was an odd shade of green, but uninjured. A moan from my left. I rolled to my feet and ran to my man.

Oh God! Please! No!

I reached his side. He looked at me, uncertain for a moment what was happening.

"Shoulder and back, Sir. Hurts, but I'm okay."

"Medic", I screamed! "Medic!"

Doc materialized.

"I've got him, Mickey. It's okay."

Blankly, I stared at him. "I...."

"Don't mean nothin', Mickey. Go take care of business." He pushed on my shoulder. "Do it. Go on."

I turned and moved back to Harry. Yelled, "Hold in place. Take a break but keep alert!"

Harry looked up. "Sir, you're bleeding."

I raised my left arm. The sleeve had a little bit of red on it. I felt the arm. "Just a scratch." I said.

"Better check it, Sir,"

"Not to worry. Get me the Captain on the horn."

"Six, got two more injured." I reported minutes later. "One medium serious and I got a scratch—No, I'm fine. My troop will be okay. He can walk in and catch a dust-off . I'm going to break for five and then move again."

Trying to breathe...my men almost dead at my own hand. I'm just like the green ghoulies—a sixteen year old kid almost killed by me—so damn hot.... How much deeper can my insanity be? It sure isn't as peaceful as it was at first. The misery of my memories.

A bedraggled soldier, carrying a large hunk of metal on his back, staggered up and reported.

Squinting at him, I asked, "What the hell for and what," I pointed to his back, "is that?"

"Sir, it's a flame thrower. The Colonel thought it might be useful. Help clear bunkers or whatever.

"Son, you look beat. How much does that weigh?"

"Uhh. Sixty-nine pounds, Sir. Maximum range about thirty meters, and fuel for maybe nine seconds." He attempted a smile, "She's a bitch, but in range, for a quickie, she's pure hell."

"Yeah," I agreed. "Hell to carry too. Sergeant Avery" I turned. "Get someone to help this poor fellow with this thing, and keep him out of my way."

We continued. We found boo koo bunkers. The large one I had thought to be a command bunker was a hospital. It had about half the medical supplies carried by your average medic and a wooden operating table, covered with dried blood.

We sighted the village around noon. A little late for an early morning visit.

Second Platoon, everyone still alive, took a break as the rest of the battalion filed by into the village. Ryan stopped to check on us.

"Colonel was impressed with your leadership today. I think he liked your yelling and jumping around. Personally, it gave me a headache."

"Me too."

"Anyway, he said to put you in for a Bronze Star. Don't worry. I'll make it sound like you knew what you were doing." Ryan grinned and moved on.

I stared into an abyss. Close. Two injured. My own, by my own hand! I saw no bridge over the ever deepening chasm between me and sanity.

****

Chapter 16 ~ Citation for Mickey's Bronze Star

Awarded: Bronze Star Medal with "V" Device

Date of action: 15 August 1968

Theater: Republic of Vietnam

Reason: For heroism not involving participation in aerial flight, in connection with military operations against a hostile force in the Republic of Vietnam: On this date, Lieutenant XXXX was serving as point platoon leader with a battalion-minus force. While enroute to the Village of Ap Ben Choa, his platoon encountered an enemy base camp. Lieutenant XXXX had begun directing a systematic search of the bunker complex when one of the elements of his platoon was suddenly subjected to intense small arms and rocket propelled grenade fire from a well entrenched insurgent force. Lieutenant XXXX immediately moved to the point of heaviest contact. Exposing himself to the hail of enemy rounds, he quickly maneuvered his men on line so that maximum effective fire could be brought upon the new enemy positions. During the ensuing battle, several of his men were wounded. Without regard for his personal safety, Lieutenant XXXX went to their aid and supervised their evacuation to a secure area. Under his direction, his platoon gained fire superiority and successfully assaulted the insurgent positions, killing one of the enemy and forcing the remainder to withdraw. The courageous initiative, dynamic leadership, and concern for the welfare of his men demonstrated by Lieutenant XXXX while under heavy enemy fire were instrumental in saving several friendly lives and significantly contributed to the decisive victory achieved by his unit. Lieutenant XXXX's outstanding display of aggressiveness, devotion to duty, and personal bravery is in keeping with the finest traditions of the military service and reflects great credit upon himself, the 1st Infantry Division, and the United States Army.

Authority: By direction of the President, under the provisions of Executive Order 11046, 24 August 1962.

****

Chapter 17 ~ Riding a Whirlwind

"Hey, Mickey, heard you were seriously wounded."

Startled out of my reverie, I stared at the speaker, Spec 4 Andrew Groves, the Captain's R.T.O. Andy was a cheerful crazy, who had John Wayne fantasies of going out on ambush with three other guys, all with machine guns and a thousand rounds of ammo each. The four would sit back to back in the middle of a rice paddy and wait for Charlie. They would attack with a thousand round burst from each, throw the weapons down and run like hell back to the NDP. He kept trying to get me to go along with his plan. Seriously deranged, but as I said, cheerful.

"Yeah right," I joked. "Gallons of blood from a major gash." I pointed to the long scratch on my elbow.

Andy laughed, "Oooh, awful. How about a Purple Heart to make you feel better?"

"Oh sure." I derided the idea. "That is if I can't get the million dollar wound award and go home." I shook my head and turned away to Avery, "Let's make sure everyone is straightened away. The day ain't over."

"Roger, Mickey. You gonna' keep Young in charge of his squad?"

"Seems to be working so far."

"Yeah." Avery chuckled. "Maybe it will calm the tension between the brothers and the rebels."

"Ah, I doubt we've solved the issue of race relations in the Army, but maybe we've eased it a bit for one squad."

"Harry, pass the word to follow Third Platoon into the ville', and—"

"Got your medal called in, Mickey." Andy interrupted.

"What!—You asshole!"

"Hey man, you said it was okay."

"You idiot. Now my folks will be getting a telegram. That will be awful for them. Shit, I've got to get a message to them, fast. Let them know I'm okay."

"Mickey, it's okay," Avery intervened. "Just call on the MARS network when we get back to base camp. Andy, don't be such a jerk again. Get your ass back with the Captain."

Andy moved on—wisely. Avery's suggestion to use the system set up with ham radio operators and the military to enable cross-ocean direct contact was excellent. I resolved to do so and calmed down. Second fell into line moving into the village.

The heat, worse outside the shelter of the trees, along with the dust, and the tension of occupying an enemy village all increased the day's stress. We searched slowly through the hootches for the VC troops supposedly in residence. We understood the delay in our arrival and the noise of approach had provided ample time for them to leave if they desired. We found no enemy troops, but we discovered one architectural triumph.

Located in the center of the village stood a larger than usual hootch with a totally unique metal roof in place of the usual thatch. The amazing part was the metal used. Literally thousands of aluminum Budweiser Beer cans had been sliced down the side, flattened, and applied to the roof in a seamless interlocked array. It was hard to picture any Americans dropping High Explosive Rounds on that work of art.

We moved to the end of the village and set a perimeter facing the jungle on that end. If Charles hadn't vacated the area, he was more likely in the woods than in the huts.

We remained alert, but rested while the Brass figured out what came next. A chopper brought in some tunnel rats and re-supply, including water in five gallon, plastic, collapsible jugs and some blocks of ice. When all the canteens were filled, we had about eight gallons of cool, wet left over. We combined it in two jugs and added a bunch of chopped ice. Ten bags of lime Kool-Aid and a hundred or so packets of sugar appeared as if by magic. The mixture was shaken vigorously. Soon we were sipping cold, wet, green. Lime is not my favorite flavor. I prefer cherry, but just then, lime tasted better than any wine I could recall.

Finally, the Colonel arrived at our end of the show. Major Lawrence, three Captains, Sergeant Major Putnam, a Kit Carson Scout and a very nervous Vietnamese man gathered around the end shacks. The Kit Carson, an ARVN Liaison, supposedly familiar with the VC in the area, gesticulated wildly as he spoke to the other Vietnamese. That individual led the group to a spot next to the second last hootch and pointed to the ground.

The Colonel looked around, pointed to a private in Third Platoon, and yelled, "You. Come over here and bring your entrenching tool. We need a hole dug."

While the Private moved to do the Colonel's bidding, I strolled over to the last hootch to check out a rectangular cavity dug next to it. It was about two meters by three by a meter plus deep. It had no apparent function.

I puzzled over its purpose, my back to the Colonel's group. The private dug a hole eight inches down, big enough around for an arm to reach through. A hand appeared, set a grenade on the ground, and disappeared. A plethora of military leadership from a Colonel through a Sergeant Major, did not have the sense to reach over and kick the grenade back in the hole. Instead they all ran for the hills...

KABLAM!

The grenade exploded and I dove for cover forward and down into the hole. Fortunately, the bottom was just solid dirt, with no hidden unpleasant surprises. I scrambled up and stuck my head over the edge of the hole.

"What the hell is going on?"

"Grenade, Mickey. Out of the Colonel's dig. Looks like we've got tunnels for sure. Occupied even," Avery responded.

I heard a familiar voice. "Colonel, request permission to enter the tunnel and catch the little bastard."

"M.B.D.! You old dawg. How are they hanging?" I shouted.

"Mickey." He grinned and waved. "Colonel, How about it?" he returned to business.

The Colonel, obviously both angry and shaken, glared at M.B.D. for a minute saying nothing. "No. Flamethrowers! We'll burn the little sucker out."

"But, Sir," M.B.D. protested. "We're here. Ready to go. I'll haul that VC's ass out and you can barbecue him in the open. I . . ."

"That's enough, Captain. I've made up my mind. Sergeant Major, get that flamethrower up here. Now!"

Top hustled off to get the exhausted fellow we had left at the village edge, five hundred meters away, with his very heavy, mostly useless, 'breath of the dragon' toy.

I thought, Captain? The M.B.D got promoted? The S.O.B.! "Hey! Tunnel bunny care for some cold, liquid green?"

"Green?" he squinched his face. "You talking green beer or what?" He walked over and we embraced.

"Nah! Lime Kool Aid. It's cold though."

We sat, sipped and caught up while the Colonel's dragon was brought in to demonstrate his military cunning and stalwart leadership. The private arrived and the Colonel instructed, "Dump half your tank down that hole and then light it all at once."

The soldier sprayed jellied gas for about five seconds and then hit a match on the end of the tube to set if off. The first match failed, as did the second. The third—no luck. The fourth etc., through the ninth and last. Lots of fuel, but no fire to make it go boom.

"Colonel, I can still get the little—"

"Captain!" the Colonel raised his hand for silence. "Bring up the other flamethrower."

Two? We've got two of these useless squirters? And one Colonel with zero brains.

We waited another half hour and the other sap arrived. Following the Colonel's orders, he sprayed half his tank and struck his first match. Fourteen seconds of fuel and no boom. His second. Fizzle. Skepticism was flowing like jellied gas. His third... KAWHOOSH! BOOM! KAWHIZZIE!

A fireball roared twenty meters into the air. From thirty meters away I grasped a small understanding how Japanese in the countryside surrounding Hiroshima might have felt.

The flames quickly torched both hootches. My men rushed to the end one and hauled out a woman and two kids. They went back in and saved a table and some chairs. As her house burned rapidly to the ground, mama-san was neither impressed nor grateful to us for pulling her out of the fire. We didn't understand her words. We got her message.

My favorite Tunnel Rat was steamed. "Fucking Charlie ain't waiting around after that. He's out the other end by now for sure and I'll have to go down and check it out.

I'll have to wear a gas mask. I hate freaking masks!"

I looked at my friend and prayed that he was right about Charlie leaving town. Tunnels were dangerous enough without the added hindrance of a mask limiting your vision in a smoke filled, confined space.

M.B.D. had to wait twenty minutes for the tunnel entrance to cool enough to move in. He disappeared into the earth. We waited. I tried to pray for him but could find no words. Eternity passed, rewound the cassette and passed again. Sanity floated off into the distance. Forty minutes after he went in, he yelled and threw out a pair of sacks. Another twenty minutes and he surfaced and made his report to the Colonel.

The sacks got passed around the entire group. Everyone peered into them, shook their heads and made comments, none of which I could quite catch. They all appeared amazed and confused at once. M.B.D. finally saluted the Colonel and re-joined me.

"Fucking asshole Brass! You know what that shit for brains Colonel cost us?"

I shrugged, "Can't imagine."

"Goddamed bugger left home in a hurry. Came out about twenty meters outside your line and slipped away. Forgot to take his bags. You know what's in them? Have you any idea? I....

"Hey, Mon. Chill out! Take a sip of green and quiet down. Don't mean nothin'." I calmed him while chills ran up my back. Twenty meters out and we never saw or heard him! Damn! Damn! Damn!

"The fucking bags contain about fifty grand! Vietnamese piastres, but fifty huge at least. Damn payroll for all the VC in the district." M.B.D. looked at me through tears. "Mickey, I couldn't see what it was with all of the smoke. I'd have shared it. You know I would. What a party we could have had. Jesus!"

I put my hand on his shoulder. "Well, if we can't party, we can at least have some fun." I grinned.

Tunnel rats don't survive by being slow. "Mickey, you sly cat. What are you thinking?"

"Unless I'm mistaken, the Colonel gave those bags to Major Lawrence for safe keeping. Now if we can't get a few solid yanks on his chain, we're really slipping."

M.B.D's grin may not have reflected salvation, but the genuine pleasure it expressed came damn close. "Colonel said I had to hike to the N.D.P with you guys and spend the night anyway. Let's fuck the Major's day. I mean, fuck it good!"

Everyone hiked by us into the woods because we had the rear for the march to the N.D.P. When the Major passed, Avery, M.B.D. and I laid it on, just loud enough to hear:

"Fucking fifty grand!"

"Goddamed Brass!"

"We could party out with that kind of cash!"

"Yeah, and no I.R.S. to worry about."

"All we have to do is get him alone in the bush. Thirty seconds and its ours."

"Thirty hell! Ten is all I need."

"Fucking fifty thou'! Yeah!"

We had difficulty making the walk in. We were laughing so hard from the Major loosening the forty-five in his holster and constantly jerking, and looking for the attack he was sure was coming.

Hell. Insanity. Killing. Butchery. We were good at that. Easy with it. But never an American. Not even a fool Major. Never! At least not just for money. Lawrence is too stupid to understand. His idiocy—our misfortune. Insanity indeed!

We cleared the barbed wire after dark and slipped into the bunkers with no light to guide us. Another day, another—God knows.

"Hi, Mom! It's your long lost son."

"Oh, my God! Where are you, Dear? I mean, where are you calling from?"

"I'm in sunny Southeast Asia, Mom, but I can't give you any specifics about my location. It's against the rules. I guess the Brass thinks Charlie might monitor your phone calls and figure out where the heck I am. As if Charlie cared or didn't already know. Hah!"

"But how are you calling me?"

"It's called the MARS network, Mom. That stands for the Military Amateur Radio System. Ham Radio operators pick up our signal and connect us to Ma Bell. Pretty neat, huh?"

"Yes it is. It's so good to hear your voice."

"I'm glad to hear you too. I don't have a lot of time though, so I wanted to let you know that I'm fine and doing okay. But . . ."

"But? Son, what's the matter?"

"Stay calm, Mom. I really am okay. However, I wanted to let you know that you will be getting a telegram from the army about me because I'm getting a purple heart."

"Oh my!"

"Now, Mom, it is really just a scratch. I mean literally, I've cut myself worse shaving. I am completely okay."

"I'm so worried about you. How did it happen? I'm so afraid."

"I happened to be a little close to a grenade when it decided to blow up. I caught one piece of shrapnel in my forearm. It's just a scratch, really. I'm fine."

"It's just that, we're all scared for you."

"I know. But listen, Mom, you know I'm being as careful as I can. Anyway we're in good shape. We have tremendous support. Earlier today we were getting ready to come back to the base camp and a couple of F-4 Phantom jets that had been supporting us zipped by to say so long. We call them fast movers and they are that. The suckers came in low, only fifty meters up, doing barrel rolls. They were flying at just under the speed of sound and I had my back to them, so I didn't see them coming. The noise from their speed alone almost caused me to have an accident and need to change my underwear. I turned in time to see the second one roll in and zoom by. I'm really glad they are on our side, and I almost feel sorry for Charlie."

"Well, that's good, Dear. I'm still going to worry about you though until you can come home."

"Okay, Mom. Just don't let the telegram upset you. Honest, it's just a scratch."

"Okay. I love you."

"I love you too, Mom. Tell everyone I send my love. Gotta go now. Bye!"

I left the radio shack feeling guilty that I had cut our talk short, but I had done what I could to prevent a problem from the telegram. I could think of no words to use to express what I was going through. Not that I wanted to share any of it with my family.

In the midst of any war, soldiers will find time to play. I had called a fly route to the corner of the end zone. Young lofted a perfect spiral. It descended right at the corner. I lifted my arms to complete perfection, saw the ammo box marking the corner at the edge of my sight, stepped into the air to avoid a nasty boom-box tackle, turned my head and caught the point of the ball squarely in the left lens of my glasses. The glass shrapnel smacked the side of my head and the rest of my body smacked into the ground. Dazed and breathless, I hesitated to open my eye, fearing what I might not see.

Moments later, relieved I could see and pissed I missed the catch, I let the guys walk me over to see Doc.

"Mickey, even self imposed shrapnel doesn't seem to hurt you. Your eye is fine, and I can't find any glass shards, so you're fit for duty. Just a couple of scratches. Want I should call in a purple heart?"

"Not! Don't even joke about it, Doc. 'Tain't all that funny. Just send in for replacement glasses. I've got a back-up pair, so I'm okay for today's ops."

Today's ops consisted of a battalion minus – three companies – eagle flight, a dandy river crossing, and surrounding a village to catch Charlie, who would be not home, as usual. Am I getting a bit cynical?

The chopper jockies missed the designated LZ by a klick and the platoon assigned point had their LT get stuck in rice paddy mud up to his waist. A chopper with a harness had to be called to pull him out. While that was going on, Second drew point and moved about half a klick to the first tributary of the river. Young bamboo shrouded both banks, making visibility on the other shore impossible.

"Alexander, you draw today's lucky straw. Swim over to the other side and check it out. We'll cover from here."

"Shit! Okay, but I can't swim with this damn rifle." He handed the M-16 to the soldier next to him and moved to the bank.

"Damn it, Troop! That far bank is a long way to be from your weapon if the brown stuff strikes the rotating oscillator. You know better," I snarled.

Sheepishly, Alexander took back his rifle and proceeded to swim the twenty meters to the other side. He set the American and World record for the slow swim by making his right arm strokes with the rifle firmly in hand. He finally stood up in the shallow water in a small inlet...

KRUNCH! KRUNCH! KRINKLE!

The bamboo on either side of him exploded with the noise of moving bodies. Alexander froze.

"Mickey! What do I do?"

My guys were moving to my left and right to open lines of fire. I looked at Alexander and waved once. "Get back here. Now!"

I truly do not know what the world record is for twenty meters with an M-16 in your hand. I have complete faith that Alexander holds that record. I blinked once, and he was below me reaching his hand up.

"Mickey, I'm stuck! Give me a hand!"

I reached down with my left hand, grabbed his right, pulled and set him down next to me. I glanced at his face and could not read his expression. I may have impressed him by re-setting the world record for lifting a one hundred and seventy pound man and fifty pounds of equipment out of knee deep mud and pulling them up a five foot bank. Or, could be, he was just pleased to still be alive.

"Avery, let's call in artillery on the other side and work it back towards us."

"Love to Mickey, but we've got a Loach buzzing around over there."

"Damn, ain't no time for tourists." Avery and I backed twenty meters from the bamboo so we could see over it. There, bumbling around like a dragonfly was one each Light Observation Helicopter or Loach. A small underpowered, non-armored, unarmed, helicopter with a large, clear plastic, bubble body, designed for observation.

We waved, shouted, jumped up and down, and hollered to get them to move out of the area, so we could call in fire support. They waved, floated, flittered, and waved some more. They would not vacate the area.

A frustrated Alexander yelled, "Shoot the bastards down! They're letting Charlie get away."

"Maybe we've just got some friendlies over there and the Loach is covering them," suggested Avery.

"Friendlies! Ain't no fucking friendlies in the whole damn 'Nam!" Alexander snorted. "You know that, Sarge."

"We'll form a discussion group later," I interjected. "Right now we've got a creek to cross. Young, your guys with me. Avery, form up the rest on the left to maneuver as needed. Let's do it." I moved down the bank and into the water with half the platoon behind me.

No friendlies in the 'Nam? Let's see. If they're Vietnamese they're probably Charlie or his supporters. If they're Americans, chances are they're REMFs or Idiots. I'm not even sure I can trust everybody in my platoon. Yeah. Ain't no friendlies here.

We crossed the creek without trouble and entered a rice paddy empty of human presence. Friendlies or Charlie, they had didi-maued right smartly to be elsewhere. The Loach was only a distant speck on the horizon. We moved on to the river a klick away.

I am not fond of river crossings. I don't like being exposed to fire where I can't duck.

I don't like being fully clothed and soaking wet, even though, in 'Nam that didn't require crossing a river. Eighty pounds of equipment on my back and a river bed full of potholes doesn't help either. As an extra treat, I didn't like the fact that over half of my men were non-swimmers.

The river was about sixty meters across. I sent two men over with a rope to provide a hand-hold for crossing. Fortunately, the water was only about four feet deep, but the current was strong. As soon as the rope was secured, I entered the water. I wanted to see what faced us on the other side. A strong swimmer, I was not concerned over passage. Half way across I stepped into a hole in the river bed. My steel pot slipped off my head, an apple bobbed out of my pocket, and my glasses slipped from my face. I let go of the rope, stepped forward and stabilized myself and thrashed my arm around for the miscreant items. In short order, I rescued the steel pot and the apple and gasped for air as I broke the surface. The glasses were on their way to Neptune's locker or wherever the hell they were going. I was effectively blind.

I splashed my way to shore, climbed the bank and pulled my backpack off. A minute's search and I located my prescription sunglasses. Okay! Now I'm only blind at night and hampered at seeing daylight details like wires on booby traps! Guess that beats totally blind.

As the rest of my platoon crossed, I advised Ryan of my situation. He responded to just hang in for the time being. I moved my platoon to establish a secure beachhead for the rest of the Battalion to cross. This took several hours. Apparently they had gotten more than one person stuck in the LZ mud. About an hour of daylight remained, and it was clear that we could not reach and surround the village as planned. Ryan called his platoon leaders together.

"The Colonel's going to set up a temporary NDP here by the river and surround the ville at 0500. He wants a platoon ambush about a klick downriver in case Charlie wants to wander in from that direction. Mickey . . ."

"Whoa! Kemo Sabe. Remember, I no can see at night. Not good to go on 'bush."

"Can it, Mickey. The assignment is direct from the Colonel. He blames you for slowing us down on that first crossing." The Captain raised both hands defensively. "I know, I know. But he outranks me. I'm sure you can handle it."

I respected Ryan, but I was already heavily overdrawn on my good luck account and leading an ambush as a blind man appeared to be pushing one bet too many. "Captain, I honestly believe this is not something I can handle. Sir, I will be absolutely blind in the dark. I won't be able to see from me to you. I mean—"

"Damn it, Lieutenant! You've performed pretty well so far. Are you getting cold feet or something? Nobody can see for shit at night. Just follow the goddam orders!"

Anger. Cold, searing anger flared inside me. The temptation was to waste them all, starting with the idiot in front of me who refused to understand or accept how blind I was without glasses and who inferred I was a coward. P.S.C. chimed in, The Captain's being pushed too. He doesn't like it much either. Why not wait and kill the one who really deserves it? I wanted to argue. I wanted to fight. Hell, I just wanted to kill a bunch of people so they would leave me the fuck alone. I shuddered, looked into the Captain's eyes, saluted and said "Right."

I had Second underway to the ambush site in fifteen minutes. An hour later we were scoping out the location to determine the best way to set up. We had received reports of Charlie sending some fifty caliber rounds at the NDP from the downriver side of the ville. You could describe the amount of light as dusk only to differentiate it from complete dark. Personally, if someone waved an unfriendly finger in my face I wouldn't respond because I wouldn't see it. I started up a hillock thinking the elevation might provide a better spot for us, when Avery grabbed my arm. "Mickey, what the hell are you doing? You silhouette up there and that fifty will nail you for sure."

God! I'm going to get these men Killed. Idiot! "Sarge, I am totally blind. Take control and just find me a place to sit until we have light and I can see."

Avery, pro that he was, had the ambush set and everything locked down inside ten minutes. We settled in for the night. Inside my shroud I wept at my hubris. My lack of courage to say no and make it stick when I was incapable of doing the job. I knew I would never forgive that failing, which almost got my men killed. Never again!

At 0400 we pulled up and moved to our assigned location for surrounding the ville. Still blind, I held on to Avery's harness and let him run the operation. We were in place on time, which was not true of most of the battalion. The encirclement was to be complete by 0500. 0600, look, is that the sun? was more like it. Another hour and a half was wasted in determining that Charles was not stupid enough to wait around and get surrounded by a battalion. Nobody was ta home but the old women and very young kids. The Colonel's disposition was less than positive. He assigned long patrol routes for each of the three companies and we marched off on our merry way. I was happy. I could see. None of my people were dead, and the Colonel chose to fly off in his chopper instead of sticking around and being a constant pain. I was sure he would manage to be an intermittent one. I hate it when I'm always right.

Our route was an unusually easy hike because a third of it took us down Highway One. Charlie didn't want our day to be overly casual so he sniped a few rounds at us. The Colonel had provided us with a Forward Observer, Lieutenant Andrew Smythe. Smitty went about his business promptly and called in some artillery from a supporting Howitzer Battery. The battery, as prompt as Smitty had been, informed him that his coordinates were incorrect and they would not fire. An extensive discussion ensued, during which Charles undoubtedly decided it would be a good time to head back to the ville for a beer. Finally, Smitty said, "Do your maps show Highway One?—They do? Good. We are standing on it, at a fucking intersection. Please feel free to fire at any other goddamed location on the whole freaking map!"

Smitty relayed the signal from the Battery, "Shot fired. Shot fired. Shot fired."

We all watched about a half mile to our left front for the explosions.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Right on target, about a mile to our right front. As Smitty discussed the exact type of grenade suppository he felt was appropriate for the Battery, Ryan threw a smoke grenade onto the highway and the Colonel's chopper bounced into view over the trees. The chopper landed smoothly and Ryan hustled over to find out how the Colonel planned to worsen our day. The discussion was animated. The look of disgust on Ryan's face as the chopper lifted off and he turned back to us was confirmation that the Colonel had jammed it another inch up our ungreased backside.

Chapman called us together. "Turns out Alpha Company got off route and cut in front of us, then walked into an ambush. Point and two others were killed in the first ten seconds. Total four dead and seven wounded. Alpha's being flown back to base. We get a different route. Six klicks through some of the worst garbage out here. The Colonel is certain we can complete it by dark."

No one commented. Some times the stupidity is so severe that speech centers simply shut down. We did a simple about face for the new route and Second drew point by default. I didn't have the strength to complain. We just walked on.

Two hours later we encountered a thick hedgerow running along a ridge blocking our path. It appeared way too thick to cut through. I sent two man teams left and right to search for an opening while I advised Fielder. We were in luck. The team on the right found a tunnel through the hedge a hundred meters up the ridge.

Did I say luck. Foolish me. The tunnel was indeed large enough for one man at a time to slide down to the bottom. Halfway down it was thoroughly infested with red ants.We could go through, but we would all exit stripping.

Ryan figured we had no choice. We slid down the tunnel of pain. I sent gear flying everywhere when I hit bottom, same as everyone. Killing the little red S.O.B.s, putting clothes and gear back on, and getting reorganized to march cost us forty minutes.

Two hours later we reached the river. Ryan ordered me to send three men over to the other side to check it out. While we waited, lunch was served. I had my favorite c-rat, Beans and Franks washed down with cold, well cool, okay warm but wet and clear. My guys reported back, and I walked over to the Captain's picnic table. I think he was stuck with boned chicken and the same delightful beverage.

"Hey, Captain. My guys say Charlie is way too dignified to wallow around in the muck, mire and tangleroot on that side of the river. No sign of his presence currently or in any previous lives. The word is that we'll be moving at about half the furious pace we've held so far today. That should let us complete the assigned patrol by noon next Thursday. Any chance we could be lifted out from right here? This area is perfect to land."

"Don't know, but I don't mind asking. We sure ain't winning no war by expiring from hiking fatigue."

"Shit! You call this hiking?" I laughed. "Hiking is like traversing solid ground. You know?"

"Why no, Mickey. That's never been explained to me. Thank you for the educational tidbit." He motioned for his R.T.O.

I like that fellow. Kind of glad I didn't shoot him.

Following an extended conversation, Ryan flipped the handset back to the R.T.O. and said, "Well, a big maybe. He's gonna fly over and evaluate the situation for himself. Hang tight and let the guys get what rest they can. We may need it."

Shortly, the Colonel's chopper buzzed overhead – a bothersome dragonfly. We all turned our radio frequencies to the Battalion freq. to listen to the conversation.

"Bravo Six, it doesn't look like you've completed much of your mission," O'Donnel pontificated.

"Well, Sir, you can't always judge how difficult the terrain may be from the maps. The thing is we can't accomplish much else out here right now, and it might be advisable just to pull us in. We've already lost some good people today."

"I know what we've lost today, Captain. And how little we have to show for it. How about the other side of the river?"

"We've already sent a patrol over, Sir. No sign of Charlie currently or in the recent past. The area is really a mess. It would be easier by far to pull out from this side."

"I'll decide that. I'm not happy with failing to complete the mission. Wait one while I go take a look for myself."

As the chopper spun away across the river, multiple mutinous sentiments were expressed. The kindest was, "I'll complete his fucking mission for him with a blooper enema!" That sentiment generated significant support. Unanimous, actually.

"Bravo Six. I think you need to complete the mission and cross the river. Then we'll pull you out."

"Sir, evacuation from that side of the river will be a holy mess. I doubt you can get five choppers on the ground anywhere let alone in any reasonable order. Let us pull out from here and call it a day."

"I can't fucking believe this! Let's shoot the fucker down and be done with this shit!" Alexander said. He picked up his M-16 and flipped it to full auto as a number of other troops, black and white, shouted agreement and followed suit with their weapons.

I shouted, "Guys! Guys! Hold up a minute."

They turned their attention to me, and I slowly and deliberately slung "One Shot" over my shoulder. "I find myself in almost complete agreement with you guys, and I know it's tempting. God! I know it's tempting. But if we start shooting commanders for stupidity, the paperwork is gonna get really bad. At least we should limit shootings to a bigger cause than making us stay in the boonies."

Alexander shook his head. "No good, Mickey! The bastard has been fucking us up and getting guys killed since he got here. He's going down and I mean now."

"Yeah!"

"Right on!"

"Fucking A!"

The chorus was strong and clear. A number of weapons zeroed in on the chopper.

"Hey guys, I understand. I don't like him either. But—but—look, you can't shoot down the chopper. The pilot hasn't done anything to you guys. C'mon."

Alexander stared hard at me. The world awaited his decision. He blew out a long sigh. "Okay, Mickey. He gets off this time. But—next time—too bad for the chopper jockey."

The others followed Alexander's lead and lowered their sights. I decided it was probably okay to breathe again. Yeah, but maybe everyone would be ahead if you had lost the argument.

"Bravo Six, there is no point to further discussion. I have made my decision. Your mission is to cross the river and secure the other side. I'll send an eagle flight to pick you up when the mission is accomplished. Out."

The chopper pivoted and powered away. Damn! The son of a bitch probably deserved execution. Yeah. As do we all. As do we all.

Ryan's orders were direct and terse, "Third crosses first, then First, and Second closes it out. Mickey, establish a perimeter to keep us covered. Just because Charlie isn't on the other side doesn't mean he isn't on this side."

I positioned my people and accepted no complaints. Yeah, we were again rewarded for being good at our jobs, but by night we'll be dry, comfortable, and relatively safe back at Lai Khe. Works for me.

Tidal rivers with their swift brackish water are an extra-tough challenge. A mud flat between dry ground and the water slicks you up and sucks you down into stinky, rotting muck. This area has no trees to anchor ropes. The best you could hope for was a large root.

Third stretched a rope across the river and began to cross. The current was strong even with the low tide, but the tide was coming in, the water was rising, and the monsoon winds were picking up. For no reason other than inability to get the job done, Third took two and a half hours to make it over. First faced deeper, faster water and wind that had a real bite. They broke out some army-issue, inflatable air mattresses. Designed to provide a cushion for sleeping bags, they were not much use as rafts, but the non-swimmers needed all the help they could get.

First struggled valiantly but still took an hour and a half to cross. Ryan called, "Mickey, I've been talking with our birds. They're circling high and waiting. They have enough fuel to wait another forty to forty-five minutes. If you aren't over here by then, we spend the night in the swamp."

"Damn, man that doesn't even give me enough time to register a complaint in detail. We're on it, Captain."

When I relayed the situation to Avery his jaw dropped, then began moving rapidly. "Shit! We have the most non-swimmers, the fucking river is a damn torrent, and our asses are hanging out very exposed. No way can we make it."

"I know, but look on the bright side."

"Bright side?"

"Uh huh. The freakin' monsoon will probably send our ride home no matter how quick we are. Let's just do it. Three best swimmers stay on the rope. I don't want to write to any parents about how their baby boy drowned because they wouldn't pay for swimming lessons."

Damn! This water's running fast and rising faster. Tidal river. Dummy! Keep 'em moving.

"Mickey, you're such an optimist. If I ever get lynched, will you provide the humor?" He turned and yelled, "Let's get it done campers! We got thirty minutes to get across, and I don't want to hear about it!"

The first fifteen minutes were an admirable demonstration of what dedication, effort and meanness can accomplish. At minute sixteen it came apart. Kevin Britton was a good soldier, a dedicated non-swimmer, and a very black man. I mention the latter only because the whites of his eyes swelled to the size of saucers and contrasted brilliantly with the darkness of his skin as he lost his grip on the rope and headed rapidly downstream while attempting to crush the air mattress with all his might. From sixty plus meters away I should not have been able to see his eyes, but they glowed with stunning whiteness and emanated total fear.

My best swimmers raced after him. One, then two caught him and slowed his rapid departure from safety. The third reached him and swimming with all their strength they were able to hold him in place but not move him back to safety. Avery directed the formation of a human chain and they reached Kevin and reeled him in. I stood helpless and filled with desperate prayer.

Ryan called, "Fifteen minutes max, Mickey."

"Working on it, Chief. Working on it. Be ready to call those taxis down, the fare is almost there.

Minutes later only Avery and I were on the wrong side. Avery started to argue that I should cross first.

"Go!" I pointed. Being a wise N.C.O. he didn't argue.

As I watched him fight the current and the winds rose to near full force, I was calm. I felt I had a set of concentric circles drawn on my back and likely a hundred snipers behind me. Yet, I was calm. I was sure we would not be on time despite heroic effort. Still, I was calm. Insanity is a wonderful thing. It lets you remain calm in the midst of the wildest whirlwind. Avery stood up in knee deep water on the far shore and I became totally not calm.

I jumped in by the end of the rope, pulled my knife, slashed the connection, sheathed the knife and crossed the river hand over hand on the rope. Swim? Hah! Who has the time? I reached the shallow water. Avery was trying to untie the rope. I shoved him and pointed up the bank, slashed the other end of the rope and went up coiling the rope as I stumbled along.

We broke through the shrubbery at the river's edge and a blessed Huey Slick was already sitting on the ground waiting for us. We hopped and were pulled on. I sat in the doorway, legs dangling out, my right arm wrapped around a seat leg. There were twelve or thirteen passengers, so we were definitely loaded full. The LZ (laughable concept) gave the choppers spinning blades a good meter of clearance all the way around. The monsoon had achieved full force. Our ship shook, rattled and rose.

I felt very not calm. Partly, I was elated at the performance of my men. Partly, I was exhausted, not from my exertions but from the reaction to almost losing Kevin. Mostly, as we rose into the storm, I felt I was riding a whirlwind and ultimately there could be no way home.

The maelstrom buffeted our sky chariot. Every revolution of the blades brought shudders and moans from the sturdy Huey. The winds were gusting from eighty to one hundred knots. Instead of the minor up and down bounce you get in a normal helicopter ride we were bouncing ten feet up and down with astonishing regularity.

Avery's fear of heights was even worse than mine. He sat next to me and quietly moaned. I watched the land being ravaged by the monsoon and let my insanity help maintain a calm appearance, even as the certainty I would find my death in this hostile land settled deep within me. No matter. Just, nobody dies under my command. That's the deal, God. Right?

After a medium-length eternity on the roller coaster, we closed in on Lai Khe. The landing approach, due to the wind velocity, was not standard. We were given no voice on the issue, nor indeed, any warning. Our chopper was 800 feet above the concrete airstrip when the pilot tilted the ship so the rotors were beating directly into the wind. I was staring straight out the door at a deadly, smashing arrival as we plummeted to earth at significant speed. Avery decided he'd had enough and tried to climb through the chopper, much to the dismay of the other passengers.

Of all the stupid ways to die in this place, this tops the list. Problem Solving Central ain't even going to bother to answer on this one. Shit!

Moments before I decided to face death heroically, while Shit bounced around my cranium, as I was going to bounce off that concrete, at fifty meters up, the pilot flipped the ship upright. It dropped to earth. One good bounce and we stood on solid ground. Admittedly she was vibrating and bouncing around a bit. Or was that my stomach?

We disembarked and crouched down at the edge of the runway per orders. The choppers vibrated around in small circles. The pilots waved. They thrust off into the storm – more rescue work for them. For me, my insanity made it clear that riding the whirlwind could have only one final resut.

****

Chapter 18 ~ Final Days – Part the First

My new glasses were not equipped with windshield wipers so I periodically wiped them with the OD towel draped around my neck. It didn't do a lot of good. We were on company patrol and it looked like we would be hiking around for an extended period. The early monsoon rains came and went with astonishing regularity. About the time your clothes dried out, rains came again. We floated through the day with our attitude matching the weather.

I was distracted by the response my best friend had sent regarding my attendance at his wedding. He assured me, he knew I'd be there. I wondered if I could get my R&R to Hawaii and time it to get home for the wedding and back in time to not be AWOL. I had no clue how I'd pay for such a trip.

At night thud we set ambush along a gentle curve in the trail.

The third brief shower stopped at 0200. At 0215, they walked into the kill zone. The eight of them had no chance. Seven claymores and a couple hundred rounds of M-60 and they were done.

At first light, Avery and two others went to check the bodies. I headed to the Captain for the orders of the day. Avery wailed like a ghost, "Mickeee!"

His panicked, lost voice terrified me. I ran.

Just over a slight rise in the path, the black-pajama clad bodies, riddled with red, crawling with flies were spread over fifteen meters. One body, its head turned to the sky, had no face. Another had no right leg below the knee. A third was bent in half backward.

I've seen all this before.

I've never seen this.

That one isn't as tall as the AK he's holding.

The bodies were undersized. Tiny.

Avery was on his knees by one of the dead. Looking at me, his hands clutching for support, any kind of support, he bleated, "Kids! Mickey. They're little kids."

That can't be. How could that be? No way . . .

This has to be wrong. Look closer..

No, I don't want to!

Look, damn you!

That one's the size of my nephew, Paul. He's only six. What's that kid doing here? He should be in school not lying dead in the grass.

I could not turn away.

Broken, bloodied bodies – small bodies – children's bodies...God—No!

There were no words, no explanations, nothing that could grant us absolution. The eight enemy soldiers – toy soldiers – were carrying more weapons and C-4 explosives in their packs than my whole platoon.

The oldest one was perhaps twelve, the youngest maybe seven.

We did what soldiers always have to do. We pulled it together. We moved on, at least physically. The morning light no way penetrated the darkness that cloaked our souls.

The 'Trail's' newest recruits gathered with the other green ghosts, grumbling like veterans. But they were just kids.

Not right!

Not fair!

Not ... nothin'.

Don't mean nothin'.

Nothin' will ever mean nothin' again.

The morning monsoon rain had been light enough to soak our clothes and gear, and ensure the maximum possible discomfort. I had saved a c-rat can from the previous day. The new c-rats had better cans of fruit, and I had enjoyed the fruit cocktail, my favorite 'Nam fruit. Now I was burning some insect-repellant-soaked peanut butter to heat water in the can for a cup of coffee – not my usual morning libation.

We were on the third day of the patrol sitting in a perimeter we had established around five huts that passed for a village. The Captain was attempting to interrogate Mama-san, who was not cooperating. I was attempting to have a light brunch. I, at least, experienced some success. The coffee made with c-rat packets tasted as bad as you would expect, but, as the first warm thing I'd had in three days—exquisite. I was washing down the second of three milk caramels I had squirreled away for such an occasion when Avery plunked down next to me.

"Mickey, dining casual I see."

"Code of the Infantry, Sarge, eat when you can, rest when you can, who knows when the next chance will arrive. How are the guys holding up?"

"I've seen them better. Everybody is still pretty upset that we triggered on those kids. Guys aren't focused."

"Dammit, we fucking better get them focused. Unfocused leads to death from small, unsightly holes that leak lots of blood."

"I know. I know. But, Mickey, eight kids, the oldest maybe ten or eleven. I feel it. The platoon feels it. Don't you?"

"Sarge, we blew up the enemy and they turned out to be kids. Fucking kids. For chrissake, they were more heavily armed than our whole platoon. We didn't have a chance to conduct an I.D. check first and find out they were kids." I shook my head. "Damn good thing too, 'cause we would've had to kill them anyway."

"Mickey, you don't mean that. I, uhhh—"

"C'mon, Avery. I mean exactly that. They were the enemy on patrol and our job was to kill them. Doesn't mean I'm happy with it, but our job now is to get the guys back on track so we can continue to do our real job and get their butts onto that freedom bird. Nobody is gonna' die under my command because they weren't paying attention."

I stared hard until Avery blinked. "That clear enough for you?"

"Yes, Sir." He shivered. "I mean, right, Mickey. Right." He moved to talk to the troops and regain some focus. I sat.

You sure convinced him. Great job there, Lieutenant. How about yourself? You buy any of that crap? Not now. Not in all the life I may have left. Eight more ghouls joining the 'Trail'. Toy soldier ghosts! Little grade shool kids playing at war. They ain't gonna' play no more. Damn!

The only thing keeping me going is protecting my guys. The insanity helps but it can't fix this. Nothin'can.

The Captain moved us out. Second was bringing up the rear so I had a few extra moments to pop the last caramel and sip the last of the lukewarm, brown, coffee-like substance. I threw the can into the brush, rucked up and moved with my men. I tried desperately to focus.

The problem with bringing up the rear is that you need to have confidence in the guys leading the way. I was okay with the Captain and the other Platoon Leaders, but I knew none of them were as good on point as me. True, but depressing. My mood plummeted as we kept stopping due to "sightings" of Charlie, but no real contact.

Charles was playing the old game of here I am chase me—a good way to die. We were smarter than that, but the VC only played that game when they had good numbers of troops on their side. Dismal thought.

After several miserable hours of slinking through the woods without finding the "big bad wolf", Ryan called a halt. He sent First out to the left front with orders to drag back down our line to catch anyone trailing us too closely. I sat down for that moment of rest so valued by infantrymen. I pulled off my booney cap to wring it out. Even soaked it weighed a lot less than the steel pot, which I had abandoned wearing after the river incident. I put it back on, leaned back to a more comfortable position, looked straight up and gulped.

That can't be"Trail" sitting up there can it? I'll put thirty rounds in him this time.

I lowered my gaze at what I hoped would seem a casual speed. "Harry, buzz the Captain for me, please." I tried to sound casual.

I took the handset from my R.T.O. and spoke quietly, "Six, I have a sniper platform about fifteen feet above me big enough I can't tell if anyone's home. Please advise the others there will be fire in the hole in sixty seconds."

As sixty eternal seconds drifted by, I flipped my selector to full rock and roll and quietly passed the word for everyone to stay cool and not shoot unless they had a target.

...58 Mississippi, 59 Mississippi "Fire in the hole!" I leaned all the way back and sprayed thirty rounds from my banana clip all over the floor of that platform. My hands worked on their own to flip my magazine over and insert the twenty rounder taped to the bottom of the thirty into "One Shot." I almost burst my eyeballs trying to check all the trees around us until I realized that my guys had it covered.

"Six, nobody home, but—Oh, shit!"

I rolled to my right into a kneeling position, raised "One Shot" and had him dead solid in my sights. A genuine, black-pajama clad, AK-47 toting Mr. Charles twenty meters away in the daylight. I pulled the trigger and Problem Solving Central hit over-ride. First is over there. Counter fire could get a lot of wrong people hurt. Before any further philosophical discussion could take place, Charlie, who was focused on the approaching First Platoon, slipped down behind a fallen tree.

"Six, can you have First hold in place and drop smoke for I.D? I've got one each gook about twenty meters out."

Moments later, red smoke rose through the tree less than fifty meters to my right.

"Six, have First stand in place and hold fire. I'll go over and kill the one in front of me."

"Negative on that, Mickey. We don't have time. Get your guys ready to move."

"Don't have time? It will only take twenty, no fifteen seconds."

"That's enough, Lieutenant. Get your men ready. There isn't time."

"No time! What the hell are we here for if not to find the time to kill the fucking enemy?"

"That's enough, Mickey. Do what I tell you."

"Roger." I signaled assemble and prepare to move. "Avery, get 'em going. We ain't got time to kill no Cong today—and don't fucking ask."

The first time in all the months I've been here that I had Charlie, for sure Charlie, in my sights, in the daylight, and I didn't pull the trigger. So now there is no time—no sanity either.

We walked down a slight hill towards a clearing visible through the trees...

KRACK! KRACK!

Everyone kissed the ground and looked for the sniper. I didn't need my radar to know it was the one I hadn't shot. I sure couldn't see him now.

Harry called in no injured for Second and got the word that first had two hit, one in the hand, the other the leg. Nothing too serious.

Yeah! If it's not your hand or your leg.

Ryan called, "Mickey, when we get to the clearing, slide around and cover the base and right side. The Colonel has choppers in the air. He wants us home in a hurry for a big operation. The clearing can only handle three birds. You're rear today so you get last out. I think you can assume you'll have a hostile send-off."

We set up as instructed. I had the guys put out our last four claymores, three to the right and one from whence we came, and run all the lines to me. I attached the magnetos and we waited—not long. With only three choppers in at a time, it took four runs to get First and Third out. The sniping started with the second run. The fifth run swooped in.

"Avery, get them all on board and make sure that last bird waits for me."

My guys swarmed to the choppers. The incoming picked up a level. I watched until Avery was the only one on the ground by the last flight out and hit the magnetos...

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

One more time!

BOOM!

I ran fast. Red concentric circles on your back and pissed off people who want to kill you provide a wonderful incentive for speed. I leaped for the open doorway and many hands pulled me in. The pilot was spinning those rotors full-tilt and we boogeyed.

I sat in my favorite position, the floor of a Huey, door open, feet dangling, heart still beating and wandered what stupendous operation our half-assed, half bird Colonel had for us next.

O'Donnel's proposed operation may or may not have been stupendous but it was certainly large. The whole Battalion minus heavy weapons – mortars and 50 calibers – was going out to sweep the countryside and hopefully persuade Mr. Charles to do the gentlemanly thing and stand and fight. With four companies, over five hundred men, I had serious doubts that Charlie would be that foolish, but he'd have a field day with snipe and run. Why is the Brass incapable of understanding that the other side will generally try not to do what you want and will play by their own rules?

Seventy Huey slicks accompanied by eight Huey Cobras would lift us all into the wild blue at the same time. Fun thing, my personal chopper would be one of the last to land. We were headed for deep doodoo, so naturally, Second drew point for the whole show. Yippee.

The monsoons skipped their normal morning dance, and the day looked like it would be hot and clear and hot and sweaty and—hot. Dusty too. Seventy choppers create a bigger dust devil than you might imagine. I hurried through the haze to O'Donnel's location at the edge of the clearing.

"Lieutenant, head into the trees there," he pointed, "for about two hundred meters then take a compass heading of 270 degrees and try to set a good pace. Most important, anybody in the trees is fair game. This is 'Indian Country'. There are no friendlies."

"Sir, does that include the village on the edge of the trees about a mile down?"

"Damn right. They know we're here and they know why we're here. They've got no reason to be in the trees. The orders are to shoot first, shoot second, and shoot third. The hell with asking questions."

"Roger, we're on our way." I saluted and waved at Avery to start the parade. As my point went by I joined him and relayed the Colonel's bidding. I dropped back along the line as we went to make sure everyone understood. By the time I informed all my men, we had covered two hundred meters and turned on our compass heading.

The great thing about rubber trees is shade. Even the tropical sun at full blast can not make the ground-level light brighter than early dusk. It's cooler too. The ten degree drop left us at a mere 105. Still hot and sweaty, but who's complaining.

We set a good pace and settled into the rhythm of the day. Into our second hour and a few hundred meters short of paralleling the village, my point raised his hand for a halt and pointed to his right. Noise was quickly followed by a sighting. A jeep! A genuine G.I. Jeep in the middle of nowhere driven by two Vietnamese men in short sleeve white shirts, dark slacks and black ties. The vision was too bizarre to even think about the Colonel's orders, let alone cut loose. We yelled laddymau and waved and in they came.

I had Harry call and advise the Colonel as I walked over to the vehicle. Avery had already secured the jeep and established an outer defensive perimeter. A quick search produced no weapons or anything else suspicious. The Colonel arrived.

He was not a happy camper, but he said nothing to me at first. Through our interpreter, the visions declared themselves to be "Just two guys on a visit to their mother in the village."

That sounded like a good story to me, not necessarily true mind you, but good. If I were they, I'd stick with it.

Following thirty minutes of frustration O'Donnel turned to me. "Lieutenant, I gave you very specific, direct orders. Why are these men alive?"

"I don't know, Sir. Lucky I guess. They sorta' caught us by surprise with the jeep and all."

"Not good enough, Lieutenant! Not near good enough. I expect my orders to be carried out as given. My order is there are no friendlies out here. Shoot first. Don't be surprised. Don't think. Shoot, dammit! Is that order clear enough?"

"Sir. Yes, Sir." I saluted. I wasn't intimidated. I was too damn hot for this crap.

A half hour later we were almost back in rhythm when, with a bang and a clang, a truly surreal apparition accosted us. A school bus, a freaking yellow school bus, drove out from the village.

The driver spotted us and slammed on his brakes. We shouted and waved at him to laddymau over to us. He hit reverse and backed away.

I moved to have my men hold their fire and sent a warning shot.

KRACK!

"Cease..."

KRACKITA! KRACKITA! BOOM! KRACKITA!

...fire!"

My hands had outraced my mind and people were being shot to hell. The bus driver bounced around on his seat as eighty rounds ripped into him.

KRACKITA!

The bullets couldn't drown the screams. All the bus windows were shattered. Bodies tumbled out the back door.

"Cease..."

KRACKITA!

...fire!"

A young girl, maybe twelve, her right arm hanging, blood all over her face and side, leaped from the roof of the bus and disappeared past a tree.

"Cease fire! Goddammit! Stop shooting! Cease...," I yelled into silence. I stared at Avery. We stared at our men. Everyone stood mutely looking at the mess.

In the silence the bus engine groaned to life, "RRR. RRRR. RRRRR." Someone shifted into reverse, and the bus backed into the village.

No one of us could find a single word to say.

O'Donnel took care of that as he ran up to me, "Lieutenant, you didn't shoot those people did you? That is—my God! Tell me you didn't shoot those people!"

I gazed at this bizarre figure and in the calm, serene voice of insanity said, "Why no, Sir. We were shooting at the tires."

No one disputed me, and we stood quietly with our own thoughts of eternal damnation while the Colonel sputtered and spasmed. He finally determined an exploratory visit into the village was needed. In we went.

Boiling oil could not burn as hot as the hatred flaming at us from the villagers. Justified hatred I knew. I also knew – this could not be made right.

I listened as a middle-aged, sweating, Vietnamese, in fear for his life, desperately told the Colonel, through our interpreter, that he had been driving the bus.

"Colonel, not that it makes much difference, but he is lying."

"Based on what, Lieutenant?"

"Based on, that the guy driving the bus had sixty or seventy holes in him."

"What! You said your men were shooting at the tires."

"Yes, Sir. That's what they were shooting at. I never said what they actually hit."

The bus sat five meters away; not a window shard intact. The driver's seat visible through the door, was soaked red. Kick the bullet-hole-free tires, however, and you'd find they were still good for that long, slow drive to hell. Which I'll be taking soon, no doubt.

My eyes locked with O'Donnel's. The gauntlet was clearly thrown and only death would satisfy the challenge.

The Colonel's eyes shifted, looked over my shoulder, and a tight, mean smile formed on his face. "Lieutenant, take a couple of men and check that thicket out." He waved and I turned to see a 'thicket' fifteen meters high and a hundred meters wide that even Brer Rabbit couldn't love.

"The enemy could have an entire base camp in there. We need to check it out." O'Donnel was nearly drooling at the thought of getting rid of me so easily.

Let's see how you deal with disappointment. "Yes, Sir." I saluted. With no further comment, I walked over to Avery.

"Get Alexander and pick another man who can fight and run. I've got to take two guys and go check out that thicket."

"I'll go with you, Mickey."

"Love to have you, Man, but you have to take care of the platoon." I turned to Harry, "Give me that Prick-25, Harry. I'll need it for this."

"Ain't I going with you, Sir?"

"Not this trip. You stay close to Sergeant Avery and keep him out of trouble."

Five minutes later, I stood at the edge of the thicket with Alexander and Private Grissom. "The Colonel wants us to check for unfriendlies in the bramblebush." I held up my hand. "Save it, Alexander. We're not checking for shit. You guys spread three meters to each side. As soon as we get far enough in to be out of sight, I'll give the word and we run. Get this straight. We have got probably five hundred plus meters to get through. Run as fast as you can. Don't stop for anything. If something or someone bothers you, shoot but don't stop. If you get shot at, don't stop. If you get hit, don't stop. Do not stop to help each other. We do not stop. We run to the other side. You guys got it?"

They nodded. We spread out and moved into the badlands. Four steps in I looked back at a solid green curtain, breathed deep and hissed, "Move out."

I ran. Alexander and Grissom ran. They were good combat troops and followed orders. They ran and looked for nothing but a path through. I ran, slightly behind, and did my best to keep an eye on both of them.

At fifty meters the run became a slow jog.

We slipped around bushes, slashed through waist high grasses. We did not stop. We ran.

At a hundred and fifty meters the slow jog became a fast walk. We did not stop. We ran.

Insanity is a marvelous thing for enhancing clarity of thought during times of great stress. As we plunged through the greenery, I found the kind of mile eating pace Edgar Rice Burroughs had described for Tarzan. We ran.

The landscape was a simple blur of greens with no single leaf identifiable as a separate entity. Burroughs was a hack! We ran.

We staggered more than ran. A hack, yes, but he could tell a damn good story! We stumbled into the open together and collapsed in a small depression a few meters beyond the edge of the thicket. Without a word, we each pulled a canteen out and emptied about half down our throats and the rest over our heads.

When our coughing, gasping and hacking for breath slowed, I picked up the Prick-25. "Operation Smoke, while we recover. Nothing found fifty meters at a time, right?"

"Mickey, hold on a sec." Alexander gasped. "I saw one."

"What?"

"Saw Charlie, black PJs and all, sitting down, eating from a rice bowl. Mickey, he only stared at me and blinked, and I was gone. But, Man, they are in there."

"Yeah, I'm sure they're in there. The fuckers are everywhere. Thing is, it's Operation Smoke, or we go back in and probably don't come back out."

I looked from one to the other. Grissom shrugged. Alexander grinned, "Smoke 'em."

I called every fifteen minutes for fifty meters. We rested for the next hour and a half, then I reported we had emerged from the other side.

"All right, Lieutenant. Come back into the rubber trees and rejoin the Battalion at the rear. Then work your way back up to your company."

Some temptations can not be resisted. "Roger, Sir. Do you suppose you could pass the word we are coming and tell everyone that not everybody in the trees is fair game? I'd hate to have to duck friendly fire, ya know?"

Sputtering, the Colonel agreed, and we moved out. Round one—a draw. I had bloodied him, however. More importantly, all my men were alive.

It was almost two hours before we reached our Company. Ryan did not seem thrilled to see me.

"Damn it, Mickey. The Colonel has chewed my ass good. You've got to stop writing your own play. This shit is getting old."

"Understood, Captain, but, tell me, aside from shooting up that bus, what would you have done differently?"

Unfair question. Ryan's a good guy. "Question withdrawn, Sir. With apologies. What's up next?"

"We're going to move about half a mile to where the trees drop back, set up a perimeter and bring in re-supply by Chinook. The bulk of the Battalion will move into the trees to establish a defensive position for the night. I'm putting you on perimeter. Hopefully, that will keep you away from the Colonel.

"Suits. Ready when you are."

Apparently the Colonel wasn't ready, so we cooled our heels in the fine hurry up and wait tradition of the U.S. Army for most of an hour. Finally, we moved. Soon, I had all twenty-four of my men, including two FNGs who were on their first field operation, set in a circle that was marginally large enough to land a Chinook.

"Shit-hook ho!" Avery shouted, as the ungainly chopper appeared, coming in high. Chinooks are big, twin rotor choppers designed to carry a lot of men or boo koo supplies. They have two drawbacks. First, they are generally lightly armed. Second, they are always a pain when they are above you because those huge rotors create a small tornado. Gentle can be found nowhere in their description.

The Colonel popped a yellow smoke, and we were soon all ducking from the sandstorm of the landing. The massive tailgate dropped and unloading proceeded apace. We grinned and watched.

The Colonel turned and headed back into the trees improving my mood even more.

The pilot took off to fetch a second load. The pussy must have been afraid of taking a few sniper rounds because he hit nearly full power straight up. I think he left us with a Force 3 tornado. Bastard!

An hour later, I popped a red smoke, and the 'hook settled in again. Off-loading moved quickly. The Cargo Master yelled, "Back soon. We got another load for you."

I waved. The beast roared off amid the swirling clouds. I coughed.

Avery sat down next to me, wiping the sweat and grime from his face and said, "Getting late for another run. I already can't see into the trees a hundred feet."

"Uh Huh. We'll be tight getting back to rendezvous. Make sure the guys are paying attention."

"Right."

An hour later, the third load was being offloaded. I was making a worried survey of approaches when Avery yelled.

"Mickey, Come over here. You ain't gonna believe this shit!"

I hustled over.

"Look, at this," Avery pointed.

I looked. 81MM mortar rounds, fifty caliber ammunition, blocks of ice, and beer, freaking beer, lay on the ground. The Chinook roared again and scooted for home.

"Harry, get the Captain for me." I couldn't even shake my head. This bizarre day seemed never ending. "Six, couple of questions. Do we have the eighty-one mike mikes with us?"

"Damn it, Mickey. You know we don't."

"Okay, then do we have the fifties with us?"

"What the fuck are you talking about? You know we don't!"

"Okay, okay. One more question."

"What's that?"

"Uhh, would you like a cold beer?"

"Jezoo criminies! What are you gibbering about?"

"Not gibbering, Captain. The last load brought ammo for the mortars and the fifties, blocks of ice and cases of beer. You might want to advise the Colonel. Don't think he'd care to hear it from me."

The Captain advised O'Donnel, and, in an amazingly short time, he was kicking the blocks of ice and mouthing unpleasantries. To my relief, he grabbed the radio and was soon chewing the ass of the REMF Captain in charge of re-supply rather than my delicate posterior. The tone of the conversation was loud and clear. It included such phrases as: "Bust your REMF ass to private"..."Put you on point carrying a block of ice," and the priceless, "Shove a can of beer up your ass, pull the tab, and fire you at Charlie...."

This delightful conversation completed, O'Donnel waved me over. "Lieutenant, the chopper is headed back to pick this stuff up. You'll have to hold this perimeter and join the Battalion when the clean-up is through."

"Okay, Sir. But it's already dark in the trees and bound to be dark here before the chopper gets here. How do we land the chopper with no strobes, and how do we re-join you in the dark?"

"Landing is the pilot's problem. Light a fire or something. As for getting back to us—we'll set up a line of sentries to bring you in. Now, I don't need any more shit. Carry out your mission."

"Sir," I saluted. He turned and left. I resisted shooting him in the back. Barely.

Full dark beat the chopper by ten minutes. By then, we had figured a way to bring him in. Unlike most of the other platoons, we had saved a few of our M-79 flare rounds. Second squad blooper fired a flare round straight up, and the pilot settled on the ground as the light extinguished.

I stood with the Cargo Master and kept an eye on the left side while Avery covered the right side. The loading was slow. The Cargo Master was a wee bit worried.

"Damn, Lieutenant, does your asshole Colonel know how stupid this is? We make a hell of a target."

"Probably knows. Certainly doesn't care, Sergeant. Comes with being an asshole."

The Sergeant agreed. Misery loves company, but neither of us was eager for the company we were likely to get.

After fifteen minutes, perhaps a third of the ammo had been loaded. The Cargo Master leaned close to me, "Pilot says we don't work for your fucking, asshole Colonel. We're out of here. Get your men and back off so we're clear to didi."

The Chinook lifted. We crouched. The 'hook rose about ten meters...

KRACK! KRACKITA! KRACKITA!

Fire came in from at least three different locations. Only AKs and aimed at the 'hook not us. The pilot hit full power, Force 8 tornado, straight up. We hugged the ground we were pressed down into and waited for a calm in the local weather.

The winds declined. I tapped Avery's arm. "Get your side in. I'll get mine. Let's vacate while Charlie is still pissed at the target and before he decides to come after us."

I moved down my side. We assembled at the edge of the trees.

"Alexander, point. There's supposed to be sentries posted to lead us in. Stay cool and take it slow. We don't need any stragglers."

We moved into a blackness more total than any nightmare I had ever experienced.

Fifteen minutes in I called a halt. Alexander reported no sentries. I called Ryan.

"Six, the shit-hook went home and we're fifteen minutes off the perimeter, but we haven't contacted any sentries. Please advise."

A short pause, "Mickey, the Colonel says you were told to call before pulling up the perimeter, and he would set the sentries out then."

"Are you pulling my fucking chain? I—"

The voices were definitely Vietnamese and clearly only a few meters away. Everyone went to the ground quickly and quietly. To my super-sensitive hearing it sounded like merely a small buffalo herd. Damn! Why don't we yell, Hey, you goddamed greenies, over here! I see "Trail" over there. I see you damn it!

I suspended breathing and used every sense I had to pierce the blackness and find a way out of this nightmare. Nothing. Nature finally required that breathing be resumed.

No way out and no way home. Can't see two feet but I can feel everybody's eyes on me looking for direction. Shit!

I pulled the guys on either side closer and whispered, "Pass the word down the line. If any shooting starts, fire a magazine then run and find a hole to hide in until daylight. Pass the word quietly!"

I gripped "One Shot" tightly and lay listening to the whispers being passed down the line. I desperately searched my mind for a better answer, but Problem Solving Central was not taking any calls at the moment.

Goddamed unfair...ghouls are supposed to glow green in the dark. Aren't they? Bastards never play by the rules.

Steady. PSC checked in. Steady.

Yeah, But how 'bout some help outta this shit?

We waited. Time was measured by breaths. Mine were a hundred years apart.

They're right over there. Waiting to kill us. Just waiting. Bastards! I—bit my tongue to keep from laughing out loud at the vision in my head. I imagined a VC Lieutenant, a mere twenty feet away, whispering to his men, "If any shooting starts, fire a magazine, then run and find a hole to hide in until daylight. Pass the word quietly!"

It is not possible to conceive of a more bizarre situation or a more idiotic way to end this whole insane journey through hell. I only want to get up and walk away.

The lightning bolt shattered my brain. Get up and walk away, stupid. Quietly, of course.

I did not hesitate. I passed the word down the line, and at my signal, everyone rose as quietly as possible and Alexander led us away.

Ten minutes of slow, stealthy hiking passed. I called a halt and buzzed Ryan.

"Six, sorry to have cut you off, but we had a close encounter with Charlie."

"Okay, Mickey. Where are you?"

"Lost in the fucking woods! Sorry, Captain. Look we'll find you. Only, please make sure everyone knows we're out here. I really don't want my guys wasted by friendly fire. We'll call when we get close."

"Roger. I'll pass the word personally."

I called Avery to my side.

"Any bright ideas on how to find the Battalion?"

"Damn, Mickey, I think they were on a heading of twenty degrees from where we were, but I can't even see the goddamed compass to get a heading. We sure don't know how much we've moved. Maybe we should set up a defensive position. Stay here."

"Possibly, but let's think this through first. They can't be that far. I—Wait a damn minute, Sarge. How many guys can you sneak quietly through the woods?"

"Weird question—five or six at best. It depends—brilliant! Damn smart, Mickey! Five hundred guys can't keep quiet. We listen for them."

We cautioned our guys to absolute silence and listened. It didn't take long to fix a direction. We moved towards the noise. Yeah, light would have been better, but you take what you can get.

We moved slow, and stopped every five minutes to listen. Seven stops, and we were close enough to call in. A few exchanged comments, and we slipped into the battalion line with Alpha company.

"Avery, count heads. I'll let the Captain know we're here."

Ryan was to the point, "Stay where you are for the rest of the night. The Colonel wants to see you in the morning. Hopefully, he'll calm down by then."

He might be calmed by then. I doubt I will. Avery is taking a long time with that count. C'est la vie, everybody's safe for the moment.

"Mickey," Avery's voice cracked. "We're missing three."

My mind cracked. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. Three counts."

"Who?"

"Grissom and the two FNGs."

Nothing. No fear. No anger. No despair. Cold enveloped my soul in this "woods of midnight darkness" and I no longer had a way to feel anything. I stood up and picked up my backpack.

"It's okay, Sarge. You watch the ones here, and I'll go get them."

"Mickey, that's nuts, even for you. You can't go back out there!"

"C'mon, man. I can't not go back out there. I've got three men missing. I need to find them and bring them back."

"I can't let you do that."

"You ain't good enough to stop me. You know that."

"Yeah. But Mickey, what are you going to do? Kill me? You'll have to. Those guys are on their own. They live or die on their own tonight. First light we'll go get 'em."

Logic. Sometimes, I hate logic.

"You're right." I sat down. "Call Ryan and advise him. I don't need to discuss this anymore tonight."

"Sure, Mickey. Alexander, Young. You guys sit with the Lieutenant. Make sure he hangs around, huh?"

"Don't you trust me? You fucking bastard!"

"I trust ya, I love ya, and I know ya. Try to get some rest."

Rest? Don't remember how or ever having had any for that matter. This night I'll wait, but rest resides in some fairytale. Besides, all those ghastly, green ghoulies keep running around in the trees; calling for me to die and join them. Rest?—a fantasy.

****

Chapter 19 ~ Final Day

At light's first glint, which in the rubber trees was the ability to see as far as five feet away, I started after my guys. I was not alone. Ryan had persuaded the Colonel to send Recon Platoon. Officially, I was accompanying them. In reality, they were moving at twice their normal pace to keep up with me. The Recon Platoon Leader was not thrilled, but he knew better than to argue.

We were half way back to the clearing when I saw movement. My hand shot up to hold the platoon as I stepped forward to observe. There! Past that tree. "One Shot" had

automatically leaped to ready.

"Grissom! You son of a bitch! Over Here!"

He stumbled, recovered and waved, "Mickey! Damn, I'm glad to see you." Two bodies appeared behind him. They all hustled to join us.

"Mickey, I—we—Shit! Man, I'm just glad to be alive!"

"Yeah, I'm glad too—Now what the fuck happened? I've had a miserable night worrying about you shitheads. You better have a damn good explanation. No bullshit either, or I'll make you unhappy to still be alive. Talk!"

"Uhh—Mickey, we did something pretty stupid. We, uhh—we fell asleep."

"You what? Fell fucking asleep? Damn! I think I will shoot you."

"Now, Mickey, I was exhausted and the two FNGs didn't know any better. Anyway," Grissom hastened on, "we fell asleep under that bush at the base of the perimeter. When we woke up, it was totally dark, and fucking Charlie was all over the place. He was picking up all the stuff left behind, drinking beer, they really liked the beer, and generally having a good time. I think that's why they didn't discover us. Anyway, we spent the whole night a few feet from them under that bush. I didn't figure there was any way to survive. I guess they were too busy to notice us. They finally went home about an hour ago, and as soon as I thought it was safe, we came looking for you guys."

"All three of you deserve to be shot. You know why?" They shook their heads and lowered their eyes.

"Look at me!" I snarled.

They did.

"You deserve to be shot because you were stupid. You're alive because you were lucky. You have used up all the luck you will have for the rest of your miserable lives. If you are stupid one more time, you die. Doesn't matter if you're tired, or exhausted or not fucking paying attention. Stupid once more and you die. I won't have to kill you. Charlie will. No charge. Capiche?"

They each nodded solemnly.

"Fine. Now get your ragged asses in line and let's rejoin the battalion."

You're not giving them much leeway on the stupid bit. You've been stupid about ten times a day since you got here, and you ain't dead yet. Is that luck or are you special?

I don't know. Maybe I'm dead and haven't had the sense to fall down and lay still. Anyway, leadership requires kicking butt after a foul-up like that. Further deponent sayeth not.

Recon notified the Colonel of our success, and we soon linked back up.

Ryan spoke a mite harshly, "Mickey, I talked the Colonel into waiting a bit to deal with you. Suggested he have more important things to take care of. He didn't like what I said. I have the sore butt to prove that. However, he agreed. He put us on rear guard to keep you as far from him as possible. I think that's a good idea. Second's got the ass end for the day."

"Yes, Sir."

"What? No wisecracks, bon mots. Or whatever?"

"Moi? None, Mon Capitan. Except...."

"Yes?"

"Thanks for taking some of my ass chewing."

"Not to worry, Mickey. I'm sure there's plenty left for you."

It was an hour before the column moved far enough for us to actually start walking. Avery and I had personally checked each platoon member to ensure gear was in order – water was becoming scarce, but ammo was okay – and encourage focus on paying attention and staying alive. I had also thanked the powers in the universe that none of mine had died, and reminded them I was prepared to quit and go home any time.

I had also reminded Avery, "I'm really looking forward to getting this operation over and heading to Hawaii on R& R."

"LT you ain't going nowhere until your replacement gets here. I'm damned sure not taking charge of this nuthouse platoon again. No replacement, no R&R."

This did not diminish my anticipation. I had always wanted to visit Hawaii.

We moved slowly. After the best part of an hour, we had covered only a few hundred meters. A stench infused my nostrils. Every combat instinct went to full alert.

"Everyone listen up." I spoke loudly enough to be heard without yelling. "We have VC in the immediate area. I can smell them. Left flank up ahead. Stay sharp!"

No one questioned my alert. There is a clear difference between the smell of Americans and the smell of Vietnamese. A lot of guys could detect the odor if the wind was right. I had never smelled such a strong rancid stink, not even at pig farms. This was of concern.

Fifty meters further the left flank hollered, "Got one dead gook on the ground."

I called it in to Ryan, and within a minute the entire column stopped. Ryan called, "Mickey, check it out but move it along. The Colonel is not a happy camper."

"Yeah? Did you ask him how five hundred troops could walk by this and not detect it? Doesn't leave me feeling secure."

"Fuck your feelings! I am currently more sensitive to O'Donnel's feelings."

Shit! I'm more sensitive to keeping my guys alive. I wonder if those five hundred fuckers missed this or deliberately ignored it.

We set a quick perimeter. Avery and I looked at the corpse from thirty feet away where the odor was only over-powering, not deadly as a closer approach would provide.

Avery advised, "We have one, four-to-seven-days-in-the-tropical-oven dead, oriental type person; bloated, stinking, and unlikely to be useful. However, I guess we need to search it."

"Yeah. Let's throw a rope and see if we can drag him a little. Could be wired with unpleasant boom surprises."

We dragged the body a few feet. No booms, but ruptures in the corpse intensified the smell. From thirty feet away, every breath I took made me spasm with a vomit reflex. To my surprise, we had a volunteer to conduct the hands on search. Grissom. I guess he wanted to make up for the previous night. Who was I to prohibit a sinner from doing penance? I agreed.

Grissom knelt by the deceased and searched his pockets, front and back. He tried to hold his breath and work as rapidly as he could. It still took him several minutes of retching with each breath to complete the task.

I reported to Ryan, "Personal papers. Nothing of military value or importance."

Doc was trying to get Grissom to gargle with a little c-rat salted water to calm the man's convulsive shudders. I put my hand on his shoulder, "Good job, Man, but we have to move now. Pull it together."

I turned. "Doc, stick with him, but don't even think of falling behind."

The column moved. The Colonel was pissed, so the pace was faster, but you still can't move five hundred men quickly.

An hour later, the Colonel called a halt and summoned the Captains to his position. We were told to use the time to eat because there would be no lunch break due to, in the Colonel's words, the unwarranted delays this morning.

Hardly anyone ate because water was in severe shortage. A few lucky troops had cans of fruit with liquid, which they ate. Most shared with buddies. I quietly gave a can of peaches to Doc to share with Grissom. He was okay but definitely resembled your basic whipped puppy.

Shortly, the Platoon Leaders joined their respective Captains to be briefed.

"There will be no water re-supply. The Colonel doesn't want to give away our position." Ryan stared at the ground as he spoke. "The Colonel thinks we can draw our water from the stream we'll be crossing in about an hour. He also wants to double our pace. We'll be moving out of the trees into jungle. He thinks the pace can improve."

"Really?" I tried, unsuccessfully, to keep the derision from my voice. "Our esteemed Colonel truly believes, after making every possible effort over the last twenty-nine hours to advertise our presence, and with the certainty that Charlie knows we're here and knows exactly, where here is, he can now sneak over five fucking hundred men through the woods? That a few choppers overhead dropping water bags would compromise us, and, further, that we can double our pace without water? Un-fucking-believable!"

Ryan quietly said, "Lieutenant, we're all too strung out to waste time and effort on fruitless protests. Get your men ready and make sure you keep pace."

"Yes, Sir." I saluted and turned to leave with the other Platoon Leaders.

Ryan reached out grabbed my arm and continued quietly. "Mickey, everyone agrees with you, but orders are orders. What would you have us do? Shoot the man?"

I stared into his eyes. "Not a bad idea, Captain. Not bad at all." I paused. "The paper work would be a bitch though."

He grinned. I grinned, outwardly. Shooting him works for me! I returned to my guys.

We exited the rubber trees in less than an hour. The temperature immediately jumped ten degrees. A toasty day in Hades. At the Colonel's increased pace, it took another two hours before the point element reached the stream. No one had fallen from heat prostration. I believe the effort to fall was more than anyone was willing to make. At least half of my platoon was groggy. We hadn't had a drop of water in over an hour.

The Colonel's orders were for each soldier to dip his canteen in the stream as he crossed and get what water he could. Full water re-supply would come tomorrow.

Like the man said when the hooker said I love you—"Yeah! Right!"

Everyone stopped and filled every canteen he had whether that was two, three, or six. It was a long hour and a half before we entered the now silt-clouded stream. I filled two canteens for me and three for Harry. Doc was doling out iodine tablets and making sure they were used to kill those little two-step bugs, and their deadly buddies, that play in all the water in Vietnam.

He dropped tablets in my five canteens and helped shake them to let the iodine mix. I pulled out my last two Root Beer Fizzies, considered them for a moment and dropped them into one of Harry's canteens. I handed that one to him first.

"Drink this down over the next ten minutes as slowly as you can."

He nodded and started drinking. To his credit, the canteen lasted almost four minutes.

I looked around at the mass confusion and did not have the strength to sigh.

"Cmon, Avery. Get them in order before Charlie decides it's time to dance, and we're caught without our tap shoes."

"Roger." Avery chuckled. A full laugh would have required too much energy.

We had plenty of time to get organized. The Colonel's outstanding leadership had left the whole Battalion in a fucking mess that took another hour to sort out.

Radio calls had been bouncing around so wildly that everyone pretty much gave up on them. We finally started moving. Thirty minutes later Ryan called.

"Mickey, are you behind me?"

"What? What are you asking?"

"Damn it, Mickey. It's too hot for this. Are you behind me?"

"Shit, Captain. I've been behind you all day. I guess I still am."

"No, that's not what I mean. Are you behind—Never mind!"

I gave the handset back to Harry. A minute later the column moved. I turned and took a step.

The universe went a Tilt-A-Whirl. The trees were spinning with the green and yellow and brown blurring into a funky mosaic... A small, curly green leaf spun slowly down... up?

Nothing else is moving. Why... What the fuck, now?

My head and right shoulder slammed into the ground followed by my right arm and side. A brief moment of eternity later, both of my legs struck the ground together.

OH GOD! AGGH!

I think I screamed. I could not tell, for I could not hear. You never hear the one...Pain. Searing, cutting pain ripped my legs. The small matter of breathing was difficult through my yowls. Then, as always, anger took stage center.

I screamed, "Oh fuck! God damn it to Hell! I don't fucking believe it!"

A voice, from another world, hit my ears, "Mickey, Don't believe what, Man?"

I struggled for a breath, beat back the pain with my anger, and wailed, "Five hundred fucking guys walk through in front of me, and I step on a fucking mine!"

"Mickey, no!" the voice came back. "It's recon, and they're still firing at us. You gotta stop 'em!"

KHAWAMP!

The blooper round exploded five meters past me.

Recon! Why? No time! Gotta stop 'em

I turned with a howl of pain from the movement and looked for my radio.

I stared.

I died!

Harry, my fifteen year old warrior wannabe, was on his back elevated slightly by the Prick-25 under him. His arms were spread – CRUCIFIED! His head lolled back eyes closed. His face, and what I could see of his chest, were painted with the deep crimson of his heart's blood.

Broken. Why Harry, God? Why do I ask? There Is no God. I...

KRACKITA! KRACKITA!

Damn! Recon's still firing. Got to stop them.

With a scream from the pain, I rolled closer to Harry's desecrated body. I pulled the handset from his webbing and reached to the Prick-25. I flipped the dial to the Battalion frequency also used by Recon.

I screamed into the handset. "Cease fire you mother fuckers you're killing my fucking guys stop shooting damn you you cock-suckers fucking cease shooting god damn please don't fucking shoot anymore fucking quit please—"

Lack of air in my lungs and serious pain shooting from my legs caused me to pause and whimper for breath. I had no hope of the pain stopping—forever.

"Mickey, they've stopped. You did it, Man. Recon isn't shooting anymore. Way to go!"

Right. Way to go. You have killed a fifteen year old kid with your fucking unbending ethics. You bastard! You—

No time for that! Find out who else is hit and deal with it!

Doc skidded into the dirt at my side. He began checking my legs. I grabbed his arm. "Doc, Harry. Take care of Harry first. I'm okay." I pushed, and he moved to Harry.

I shouted, in my best available, angry, command voice, "Okay listen up! Anyone who is hurt and can, sound off. Let me know you're hit and how bad, if you can tell me."

"Mickey, this is Grissom. Caught some shrapnel in my arm and legs. Hurts but I'm okay."

"Sir, Private Galvin. I'm hit in my knee. It's burning real bad, but I think I'm okay."

One of the FNGs who danced with Charlie last night. Hell of an intro to 'Nam.

"Okay! Check your neighbors and make sure no one else got hit. Then set a perimeter so Charles doesn't stroll in uninvited!"

I flipped the radio back to the company setting.

"Six, this is Mickey. I've got four hit. Harry's bad. Grissom and Galvin look not too serious but need evac. My legs are chewed up and I'll need to fly out too. Please advise the Colonel. Get evac in the air and send medics back here. We need help."

"Roger, Mickey. On the way."

I dropped the handset and focused on the pain.

No pain! No time! No pain. Hear me, God! No pain. I don't have the time. You and I will settle later, but no pain now.

Foolish, I know. Thing is, it worked. The pain receded.

I looked at Doc. He was laboring furiously with the kid and muttering words I couldn't make out.

Even the best medic can't raise the dead. I would have cried, but no tears were within me.

Two medics rushed up to my position, dropped their bags and knelt next to me.

"What are you fuck-heads doing?"

"It's okay, Sir. We're going to patch you up. It's okay. We aren't going to hurt you any . . ."

"Shut the fuck up! There are two guys down the line who need you first. Get moving."

"But, Sir. You're hurt worse and besides, you're an officer."

"What I am is a pissed-off officer. Now go take care of my men first, or I'll shoot you, and you can join them."

I looked again at Doc. Still working and muttering. Everything blurred for a moment. No pain! Damn it! No pain. It receded, again.

I blinked and there he stood at my feet. Colonel O'Donnel, in the flesh, stood legs apart, hands on his hips and looked left then right. He shook his head and spoke clearly and bluntly, "This," he waved an arm, "should not have happened."

I stared at this evil being for a second. I blinked: I charged him: Capital Murder in the First Degree of a foolish, patriotic fifteen year old. I tried him, found him guilty and determined the appropriate sentence. Death, of course. Immediate and permanent. Hell, I can waste him and probably get off light with temporary insanity. Not that it matters. Sentence to be carried out now.

I un-blinked, looked calmly at the condemned and spoke as clearly and bluntly as he had. "It damned sure did happen though! Didn't it?"

"One Shot" laid across my stomach where it had been since I landed. I grabbed the pistol grip, thumbed the selector to full auto, glanced at the magazine—Shit, only a twenty rounder. It'll have to do.—and executed the sentence.

The muzzle was less than two feet from O'Donnel's belly. My aim was true. I squeezed the trigger.

Doc spoke quietly but firmly, "Mickey, Harry's going to make it. He's going to live."

No! Another half ounce of pressure and it's done. I'm done.

My hand and arm trembled with the immense effort required to not exert that half ounce of pressure.

I turned to Doc.

"What?"

"I said Harry is not going to die. He will make it."

"You better be right, or I'll come back and finish this." I waved "One Shot" at the condemned.

"Mickey, if Harry don't make it, you won't need to come back. I promise."

I lowered "One Shot." The condemned, his face a more strained color green than his OD shirt, did the only intelligent thing ever recorded of him. He turned and walked away without a word.

Two other medics came slowly forward to me.

"Uhh, Sir. Is it okay if we work on you now?"

"Sure, fellas," I graciously agreed. "Have at it.

One gave me a shot of morphine in my left leg. The surrette broke, so he gave me a second full shot and fastened both used needles to my collar so other medical personnel would know I had received the medicine.

I considered asking Doc for more details on Harry, but I feared his answer might change so I focused on no pain. It didn't seem to be working. I looked at the medic on my right who was gently probing my legs.

"What are you doing?"

"Checking to see if you have any broken bones, Sir"

I pulled my knife from its sheath, flipped it, caught the blade, and extended it to him.

"No bones broken, Son, but quite a few holes that are leaking red stuff. Cut the pant legs open, and put some band-aids on, will you."

Avery came and sat next to me.

"Sarge. What the fuck happened?"

"Another brilliant gem from the Colonel. After we got all strung around at the stream, O' Donnel made a right turn to get everyone in a straight line. He sent Recon out to fire back along the line to catch any sneaky Charlies following us. They were supposed to get an all clear before firing. I don't know why they triggered when they did."

"Shit! I do. Ryan called and asked me a couple of times if I was behind him. He never said anything about turning a corner and getting on line. Simple communication foul-up and we get whacked. Shit!"

Avery responded, "Makes a sort of twisted simple sense. I—"

"Excuse me, Sarge. Troop, what the hell are you doing with my leg?"

"Sir? I'm bandaging it like you told me to."

I sighed, "Try bandaging all the holes. That would include the ones in my ankle."

"Oh. I guess we need to take the boot off."

"I guess," I agreed.

I turned back to Avery and reached for his hand.

"You've got to take care of the guys for me. I'll be out a while. Then Hawaii and a soft REMF job."

"Damn you, Mickey. You'd do anything for that R& R. You son of a bitch."

"True, Sarge. True. But believe me, if I'd planned this, we'd have shot only Colonels and above."

We both laughed, but the shaking hurt my legs badly. I stopped quickly.

"Take care of them, Man."

"Yeah. What else would I do?"

I looked over to Doc. He gave a thumbs up. Several troops I didn't recognize came up.

"Sir, the medevac is in the air. We need to get you on this stretcher." He waved at a sheet of canvas with handles. "Captain, says you get loaded first."

"Really? Fuck Ryan and the horse he road in on. Harry goes first, followed by Grissom and Galvin. I go last. Got that?"

The spokesman laughed, "Captain Ryan said you would say that. Then he said to let you have your way."

Damn! Now he lets me have my way.

They placed the stretcher on the ground next to me. Two got at my shoulders and two stationed by my legs. The one on my right leg took hold of my ankle. I screamed and threw my hat at him.

"Mother fucker, that hurts!"

"Yes, Sir. You see you've been shot and there is some pain attached . . ."

"Bastard! Don't make me laugh. It hurts when I laugh. I'll move myself over. Give me a minute."

All those war movies where the hero is injured then gets up, kills three thousand of the enemy and walks off with the girl—lies! Miserable stinking lies!

I managed to move myself from where I was to right next to where I was. It took over five minutes and caused significant pain accompanied by an amazing variety of grunts and groans. But, I'm a proud man—okay, a dummy—but I did it.

The medevac chopper arrived on station . The problem was the gap in the canopy to get in was marginally sufficient if the pilot was good enough to come straight down and go straight back up. Straight, as in elevator straight.

Our guy was good. The chopper drifted slowly through the canopy. The rotors did a little branch trimming on the way in, but hit nothing major. The skids touched down, and things happened rapidly.

The guys carrying Harry moved to the chopper first. Doc went with him to make sure he got loaded and to give the medics information on what he'd already done.

Grissom went next. Then Galvin.

Finally, the guys picked up my litter. They tried to handle it delicately. I think they were concerned I might get irritated and shoot them. Fat chance! I had given "One Shot" to Avery. Still, it was nice to have a reputation that caused people to be gentle when they carted your wounded body around.

They placed me on a litter from the helicopter. One with poles running down each side. They lifted the poles and racked me in. Last one on got the highest seat. My face was about six inches from the ceiling of the chopper. I had never appreciated how little there is to notice about a helicopter ceiling.

The pilot applied power, and the rotors slowly lifted their cargo straight up with hardly a shiver. The blades trimmed a few more branches. The ascent felt only slightly faster than a standard elevator.

I looked out trying to see the guys one more time, but only had a view of the trees. The ascent continued. Suddenly the feeling felt reversed as if I were falling gently down an elevator shaft. A moment of panic then I understood.

Shock. If this is shock, it's not too bad. Not at all too bad. If it's something more? Hell, who wants to live forever? That ain't so bad either.

The pilot applied some heavy power and I left Avery and all the rest behind.

****

Chapter 20 ~ Aftermath

The ship tilted right and rapidly gained speed and altitude. I continued my gentle slide down that elevator shaft. I drifted – a minuscule piece of olive drab lint floating on unknowing, uncaring winds.

A head popped up next to mine. A voice carried across a seemingly vast distance, "We'll be landing in about two minutes. Charlie Med at Quon Loi is waiting on you guys. Hang in there, Sir. You're going to be okay."

Before I could ask about Harry, the head disappeared. Moments later, the rotors, inches above my head, flared and whooshed with the braking air that precedes a touch down. A gentle bounce on the skids, a settling shake, Ouch! and we landed.

I watched Harry's stretcher being hurried to the Medical Quonset Hut. By the time they lifted me down, his stretcher had disappeared through the double doors. As I followed him, the nightmare that he was dead forced its way to the forefront of my consciousness. The fear sent my mind spinning. My legs began to ache.

"Lieutenant. Nothing to worry about. You're going to be okay." The speaker was one of the medics who had carried the stretchers in.

"Not worried about me. The kid? The one they brought in first. How is he doing?"

"I don't know, Lieutenant. They're working on him now. I can go down and see what I can find out for you." He waved towards the end of the hut where a large overhead light marked the operating theatre. "Okay?"

"Yeah! Thanks."

He moved away. I whispered, "Steady," and pushed against the nightmares.

An instant answer would hardly have been quick enough, but he seemed to take forever before returning.

"Good news, Lieutenant. Your guy took a lot of hits from his neck down to his belly. The neck wound missed some serious arteries by a mite and a couple of pieces of shrapnel got his lungs. Doc says he'll have some pretty scars but should heal up fine."

"Thanks. That helps."

"Anything else I can do for you?"

"Nahh." I nodded and drifted off.

I snapped back to awareness when they lifted my litter.

"It's okay. Lieutenant. We're going to load you on to the chopper and fly you over to the hospital at Bien Hoa. They'll take care of you better than we can. All of your guys are stable and going with you."

I nodded and floated. The touch down at Bien Hoa jolted and my legs protested me back to awareness. They placed me on a gurney and wheeled me into a hallway filled with wounded men and steaming from hot, uncirculated air. My mind floated as I made slow progress down the hallway. Finally, I was wheeled into the operating theatre, and my sled was stacked into a corner with several others.

I stared at the bight circular light suspended over the operating area. They operated on guys on their gurneys. Easier to move them around, I guess. That bright light seemed to recede, and I began to shake from the cold.

"Troop. You all right?"

"Co—Co—Cold," I stammered.

"I'll get you a blanket."

Moments later, welcome warmth covered me and I drifted.

My gurney was yanked, moved and I looked straight up at a large, brilliant light. Someone pushed on my arm, and a voice said, "I'm Major Bowman. I'm your anesthesiologist. In a moment, you will feel some pressure on your arm. When you do, count backwards from a hundred. You won't make it to ninety-seven. You're going to be fine."

"Here we go."

I'm a good soldier. I did as I was told. "A hundre—"

"Wake up! Lieutenant, wake up! We need you to help us get you into bed. Wake up."

I was not sure of where I was. I was sure my whole body ached and my legs really hurt. Mostly, I wanted to slap that nagging voice. I woke up enough to help slide over into the bed. I laid my head back....

Slowly, I returned. Room is dark, except for some small lights. Lots of people in beds. I'm in bed. What? Oh yeah, legs. Damn, they hurt! Harry! Oh fuck! No. Its okay. They said he'd be okay.

I breathed and the room came into focus. Hospital bed. Lights are low. Night. Where is Harry? Wait, is that him three beds down across the aisle? Damn! It is him. He doesn't look real healthy with those tubes in him. But he's alive! God damn! Alive! Whew!"

It hit me. I grabbed for the emergency button and kept punching it. C'mon. Damn it. Answer me!

"What is it? I'm here. I'm your nurse. What's wrong?" The witch in white babbled.

I counter babbled. "You don't understand. I've got to tell her myself. She'll get a telegram and—you don't understand."

We both slowed down. The nurse held my arm. I gasped for a breath.

"Please. I need to get to a phone and call my Mom. She'll get a telegram and it will kill her if she hasn't heard from me. Please?"

"Lieutenant, the Red Cross comes by at 0900. They can take you to a phone. Will that be quick enough for you?"

"Uhhh. Yeah. Sure. Thanks."

I settled back. "Damn! My legs hurt."

The Red Cross was actually on time. After a painful fifteen minute struggle to move from the bed into a wheel chair, which left me sweaty and exhausted, they wheeled me down the hall to a set of phone banks. The Red Cross Lady dialed the operator in Tokyo for me, wished me luck, said she'd be back for me in a while to take me back to the ward. She left me alone with a nice, Japanese language only operator.

She understood United States of America okay. Ohio did not get across. Apparently, Ohayo means Good Morning in Japanese. Sandusky, Ohio had no chance. We struggled on, and after about a half an hour the phone actually rang at what turned out to be my parent's home.

Mom answered, "Hello."

"Mom! Hi! It's your number two son. Hi!"

"My goodness, Son. Where are you calling from? What's going on?"

"In a minute, Mom. I need to make sure we have a good connection. Can you hear me okay?"

"I can hear you fine."

"Good. Can you understand what I'm saying?"

"Yes. What's going on?"

"Hang on a bit. We're almost there, Mom. Are you sitting down?"

"Yes, I am. Now please tell me what is going on."

"Uhh—I got shot in the ass. But I'm perfectly fine. I'm okay. I'm . . ."

"Son, I understand you are okay. Now slow down and tell me what happened."

"Okay, Mom. I got hit with shrapnel from an M-79 rifle grenade. It chewed up my legs a bit, but no serious or life threatening damage. The legs hurt but they will be okay, and I really am going to be fine."

She took it better than I said it. We exchanged "I love you" comments, and I was sitting quietly in a wheelchair with legs that ached.

Patients left and came to the ward throughout that day. I didn't pay too much attention because I was discovering how effectively shock covered up pain. I was most definitely not in shock any longer, and it hurt like hell. I declined any pain-killers because I feared addiction. I lay there and hurt.

Around supper time, a young black man was placed across the aisle. The corpsman waved over at me. "One from your Battalion, Sir. You might want to talk when he comes to."

I waved thanks and went back to psychological strategies to limit pain. They don't generally work, but they do pass the time.

An hour before lights out I detected that my neighbor was awake and moving. He was also making quiet noises that a less sensitive soul than I might describe as crying.

"Yo. Heard you were with the 1st of the 16th. I was with Bravo. How's it going?"

He turned his head, "Oh yeah. You're that Mickey 6 that got whacked by Colonel Asshole. Man, it got hairy a little while after you evac'd! Must have been battalion strength. They hit us from all over. Fighting lasted all night, and most of us figured we'd not live to see the sun. I nearly didn't. I got," he coughed, "Uh, I got hit about 0400. Didn't get out until almost noon."

"Sounds nasty enough, but, you seem okay now. How bad you hit?"

"Oh hell, Mickey. It ain't that it's bad. It's fucking embarrassing."

"What could be embarrassing about getting wounded fighting for your country?"

"It's where I got wounded. We had heavy fire coming in, and I got down behind a log. I, uhh, got everything down except my butt. It stuck up enough to get hit by an AK round. Dug a gash two inches wide and an inch deep right across my ass. Doc says it missed my tailbone by less than an inch."

He sighed and sniffed. "Thing is, how am I going to go back to my folks and my girl and my buddies and tell them what happened? I don't know what to tell them."

I thought for a moment. "Okay troop, let's review. You weren't running or hiding from the fight when you got hit, where you?"

"No! Man, I didn't get my butt down enough that's all. But, what can I say to my guys. They'll kid me about it forever. I mean fucking forever."

"Why don't you try this. Tell them you were engaged in a fire fight with the enemy of the United States, and in the course of facing the enemy, you were wounded. If they ask you where you were wounded, tell them in the ass and offer to show it to them. That should keep them laid back a bit."

He laughed and yelped from the pain of moving. He laughed and yelped some more. Finally, he settled for a soft chuckle and a small whimper. We talked a while longer, and both drifted off to sleep.

After breakfast the next morning, a corpsman began moving from bed to bed changing bandages. He reached the bed across from me and removed my friend's outer bandage. Due to the location of the wound, there was a high risk of infection, and the wound had to be kept packed with moist medicated material. This needed to be removed and replaced. Some of the material had dried and stuck to the wound. It had to be tugged out to be removed.

The corpsman yanked, the troop shuddered and sniffed. The corpsman lightly slapped his back, and said, "Quit crying, you big baby."

I was on instant combat alert. I did not move, but carefully watched the corpsman. He completed his task and moved to my bed.

I slowly turned over so he could work on the backs of my legs. He grabbed the first bandage and tugged where it had dried to my leg. I grunted.

"Don't . . ." he started.

My right hand shot up to his collar, grabbed hold and pulled his face close to mine. In the deadliest tone I could manage, I spoke softly, "You just do your job and change the bandages. You don't say anything to anyone unless it is a medical necessity. If any of these men wants to sniffle, or cry, or out right bawl, they will. They've earned the right. On the other hand, if I see you strike another soldier or call one a baby, I will get up on these fucked up legs of mine and kick the living shit out of you." I paused, "Understand?" I tightened my grip.

He nodded. I turned him loose. He finished bandaging my legs and quickly left.

As he departed several "Right on!" and "Way to go!" comments echoed in the ward.

Here we go again. Doesn't the shit ever stop? Wonder which green ghoul will be up first?

The response, in the form of a Nurse Captain, came within thirty minutes as I expected.

She rumbled up to my bed. "Now see here, Lieutenant. I am Captain . . ."

"I don't give a fuck if you're Captain Ahab!" I interrupted. "Short and to the point. No one is going to abuse any of these men and call them crybabies while I'm here. If they do, I will kick their ass. That's the end of the story. Now go away and let me get some rest."

She sputtered and left. It took a little over an hour for the second response. This one by the Bird Colonel in charge of the wards.

He stormed in and got about as far as Ahab had.

"Colonel, as I told the nurse, I will not tolerate abuse of these brave men who have fought for their country and been injured in the process. They have earned the right to whimper and cry if they choose and to not be called crybabies and abused for it. I'll kick the shit out of anybody who treats them wrongly. That extends from the corpsman up to you. I think that is clear enough. Don't you?"

The Colonel sputtered a minute. "Charges. I'll have you . . ."

"Shit, Colonel," I cut in, "What you gonna do. Send me to the 'Nam?"

That ended it. The Colonel exited. The Corpsman and Captain Nurse did not show their face again. The following day, I was shipped out of country to Japan for further medical treatment.

Camp Zama, Japan, appeared to be a pleasant spot. The chopper touched down on the heli-pad, and they carried our litters out into a balmy, somewhat cool day. The temperature was 77, and if my legs hadn't hurt so bad, I would have enjoyed sitting outside for awhile.

The treatment at Bien Hoa had stabilized me, and I knew that I had suffered mainly soft tissue damage, muscles and probably some nerves, but no bones broken or connecting ligaments destroyed. I was scheduled for surgery the next day. Then I figured a few weeks healing and back to Sunny Southeast Asia to complete my tour, hopefully, as a certified REMF. Harry was alive. I was okay for the moment.

My doctor, Major Stensis, had mainly recleaned the wounds, checked for infection and stapled the holes closed with metal staples in surgery. He followed up the next day and was rather pleasant.

"How long were you in-country?"

"Since mid-April, Doc."

He checked my right ankle and tsk-tsked a bit. "Have to keep an eye on that, but it should be fine. Did you see much action while you were there?"

"My share, I guess. Fought through Second Tet and the Third Offensive. Operated out of Quon Loi and Lai Khe all the way over to the Parrot's Beak.

"Hmm?" He checked the staples on the left leg. "Where you from? Back in the World?"

"Ohio. Little town—Sandusky, Ohio. You might have heard of it. There's a major amusement park there. Cedar Point."

"Yeah. I have heard of that. Neat place, huh?"

"Great if you like roller coasters."

"I do. I'll have to make it a point to go there some time."

He finished checking my upper right leg. "So, how would you like to go home to Ohio?"

Talk about roller coasters. One minute I'm recuperating so I can get well enough to return to Hell, the next I have a way out! I've never been so scared in my life.

"Doc," I reached for his arm, "the only question I have is, who do you want dead?"

He pulled back a little, saw I was not joking and shook his head, "Won't be necessary, man. You've done your duty. I'll fix it for you to go home."

Words were hard to come by. The fear that this was a ruthless, mean joke hovered over everything competing with a ticket to a freedom bird. I stammered, "Jesus!— Thanks!—But the offer stands, Doc."

He smiled. "Rest and get better. You should be walking in a few days. I'll check in on a regular basis, but if you need something, tell the nurse to call me."

He left. I spent the rest of the day persuading myself that it was not a vicious game and that I had a ticket to ride.

My days evolved into a routine. The day after Dr. Stensis promised to set me free, I asked for and got a wheelchair. Three days later, I called the corpsman to my room.

"Get that two wheeled piece of shit out of here," I blustered.

"Now wait a minute, Lieutenant, I know it's difficult, but . . ."

"And bring me some crutches," I grinned.

"Right!" He grinned back.

I crutched my way slowly out of the room, down the hall past the nurse's station and around the corner. I stopped.

Shit! This is stupid. Damn things hurt my arms and don't help my legs.

I put the crutches in my right hand, turned very slowly and walked extremely slowly back to the nurses' station. I stopped at the counter and waited. The nurse finally looked up.

"Can I help you with something?"

"Yup." I placed the crutches on the counter. "Find somebody who can use these."

I turned and walked away slightly faster than some snails I've known.

They learned quickly to not awaken me for breakfast. I tended to throw things like the crap they served for breakfast. I'd get up at mid-morning and shuffle down to the PX for a hamburger, french fries, and a coke that I usually followed with a hot fudge sundae. Breakfast? Pahh!

I ate lunch and supper on the ward until they had lobster on the supper menu one night. Along with a couple of other officers, I ate lobster on the ward and then went to the mess hall for a second helping. The Mess Sergeant was not truly convinced that we had switched off the ward that very day, but he had enough lobster so seconds it was.

I took to helping the nurses with paperwork involving greeting the new patients, giving them some unit decals and making sure they were advised of S.O.P.s. It was easy to do and kept me busy.

One evening I met a soldier from the 1st of the 16th. I introduced myself as Mickey 6 and struck up a conversation beyond the usual.

"How are the guys hanging?"

"Uhh. Mickey, you haven't heard. No, of course not. The bastards don't want anyone to know."

"Know? Know what?" God! What now?

"You remember General Ward? The asshole who liked to direct the fighting from the air?"

"Sure. I actually had a moment with him myself. What happened?"

"He got way out where he didn't belong and bought the farm."

"No shit!"

"Yeah! And that ain't all. He got his bird shot down with a full Colonel, two Light Colonels, a Major and a Sergeant Major on Board. All D.O.A. The pilots too. Charlie ain't stupid. One look and he knew we'd come for those bodies and did he ever get ready for us. Alpha went in first. Eighty percent casualties and they didn't even get close. Then Delta. Sixty-five percent casualties. Same same result."

God no! Not Bravo!

Without mercy, he continued, "Finally, Bravo went in. They took forty percent casualties. They got the bodies. Even brought the General's dog back for burial. I understand it was Bravo, Second Platoon that got the site secure enough to bring them out. High price for vanity and stupidity. Fucking high price!"

I shook my head. "Fucking high price for the whole fucking war and about the same return. Only bodies to bury."

I thanked him and left for the officers club next to the hospital. I don't know why it some times takes a lot of alcohol to make me numb. That night they reached closing before I lost consciousness. More shitty news.

A day later, Nurse Evans called me to the nurse's station. She was a large, young woman so full of cheer and so naïve about the world including the military side of being an officer, we took to calling her Dale after Roy Rogers' lady.

"Dale. How's the rodeo today?"

"It's fine, Mickey, but I have some bad news for you."

"That's happened before in my life." It was clear she was uncomfortable. "Lay it out there. I can handle it."

"I hate having to be the one to tell you, but here it is. We have a patient coming in tomorrow. A Captain Ramirez. He outranks you so we have to give him your room, and there are no more private rooms available."

"That's it? Dale, Roy wouldn't even consider that bothersome let alone bad news. Who are you bunking me with?"

"Sorry but it's an enlisted man, Sergeant Major Svenson."

"Sergeant Major. Dale, have you checked with him about this?"

"Why no. He's an enlisted man and you're an officer. Why would I check with him?"

I sighed, "Child, you need to learn a bit about who really runs the Army. Come with me."

We walked down to the Sergeant Major's room. The door was open. I knocked.

"Sergeant Major, could I trouble you for a moment of your time?"

"Sure, Lieutenant. Come in. You too, Ma'am."

We sat down on the second bed.

"Sergeant Major, Dale tells me they have a Captain Ramirez coming in the morning, and they need my room for him. I was wondering if you would consider sharing your room with me. I don't snore too loudly, and I usually pick up after myself."

"Why, absolutely, Mickey. It'll be a pleasure to have you as a bunk-mate. Thank you for asking. A lot of young officers would not have been so courteous."

"No sweat, Top. I'm one of the blessed few who found out early who really runs this Army. I'll bring my stuff down."

"No hurry, Mickey. Can I offer a libation to association?" He reached into his cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels.

"Suits me, Top. But Dale is on duty. Maybe she'll honor us at a later time."

We sipped. Dale went back to work. The world seemed bearable.

Captain Ramirez was another story entirely. He had been in command of a mechanized company that got surrounded by hostiles in 'Indian Country'. The armored personnel carriers got crippled by RPGs and mines. The company circled and fought through the night.

Early in the fight Ramirez was manning a .50 caliber machine gun when Charlie lobbed an RPG right at him. He saw it coming and spun the turret. The grenade glanced off the shield and hit him in the side. It passed through him and exploded, killing two men behind him.

He stayed in the fight. At first he fired his M-16 over the top of the APC with his left hand. His right was not functional. The lack of recoil in an M-16 allows a 90 lb. weakling to fire it without trouble. The recoil kept knocking Ramirez to the floor. When he could no longer stand up, he sat on the seat, pulled a box of hand grenades next to his position, armed them by pulling the pins on hanger hooks inside the APC and lobbed them over the side.

His men finally made him stop that when he almost didn't get one out of the APC. He was dusted off the next morning. If I owed Death a debt for numerous close calls, Ramirez had really maxed out his credit card. It's a vast understatement to say he should not have been alive. Tough man.

Three days after he arrived, I had to re-evaluate my definition of tough.

I returned to the room from the PX with a magazine and a bag of M&Ms. Sergeant Major Svenson and Lt. Evans were waiting with faces that forecast a miserable day for me.

"Mickey," Evans spoke softly. "We need you to do something for us. We think you are the only one who can handle it."

"Can't say that sounds good." I tried to laugh.

"Ain't good, Mickey," Svenson chimed. "But I reckon you're about the only one can handle it. I know I can't."

"Top, when you can't handle it, I'm sure I don't want to even hear about it." I stared at the two of them. "But I reckon I will, huh?"

The Sergeant Major looked at the Nurse who was biting her lip. "Sir, at 1000 hours tomorrow morning, Mrs. Ramirez is going to call her husband. The Captain has lost eighty percent of his hearing and someone has to be in the room to help them talk to each other. We figure you're the one can do it."

"Damn, Top. Ask me to do something difficult like swim to Hanoi and kill Ho Chi Minh with a pair of scissors. But, Man, not this."

It is difficult to deal with other people's pain when your own hurt has overwhelmed you. Getting between two people and being the conduit for their pain is beyond the pale. As they struggled to reach and reassure each other and fought through their fears, I too, would be dragged across the burning coals.

I knew, even as I protested, I would do what they asked. If God had taken that cup from me, I'd have been more inclined to think kindly of God.

Dale reviewed the Captain's condition. Alive and going to stay that way, but one hundred percent hearing loss in one ear and eighty percent in the other. Not fixable. Large hole in the side and multiple shrapnel in the back with no major organ damage but some nerve damage. All fixable. Some good years ahead except for the hearing.

I did not sleep well that night. At 0945 I entered Ramirez' room. I spoke as loudly and clearly as I could to tell him I would interpret between him and his wife. He only said, "Be sure to tell her I love her."

The call came. I introduced myself to Mrs. Ramirez and explained that the Captain's hearing loss required an interpreter to help them communicate. She understood and said, "Be sure to tell him I love him."

We proceeded to tell each other that the Captain loved the Mrs. and the Mrs. loved the Captain for about ten minutes.

Did Shakespeare know so many ways to say I love you? I knew I didn't. Maybe I never would.

The call was limited to twenty minutes so I asked, "Mrs. Ramirez is there anything else you would like to know?"

She asked softly, "Is he going to die?"

It ain't the dying, I thought, It's living long years with the ghosts and the darkness.

"Maam, the doctors and nurses have assured me he has a lot of living left."

"Are you sure?" she persisted.

"What is she asking? Tell her I love her." The Captain interrupted.

He was becoming more agitated as was she.

"She's concerned you're going to die."

"Young man, tell me the truth."

"Tell her I love her and I'm coming home to her."

"Maam," my voice was shaking, "The Captain says to tell you he loves you and he's coming home to you. That's the truth, Ma'am."

"Oh. Thank God. Are you sure, young man?"

"Yes, Ma'am. You've got some years left with each other. I'm sure."

Hope that's true. Seems to be. Don't know what I have waiting, but these two deserve a lot of years together.

I relayed the medical information and interpreted a lot of traffic back and forth. I continued with the message that he was fine except for his hearing and likely to have a long life left.

With five minutes to go, we kept to the basic message of loving each other. Noah could have floated his ark on their tears, and no poet of love would ever match their sheer emotional connection to each other.

Final goodbyes were uttered. The connection was broken. I saluted Captain Ramirez. He mouthed thank you. I exited the room.

I staggered one step from the door and would have crashed, but Sergeant Major Svenson was there. He grabbed my left arm and placed a tumbler with brown liquid into my right hand.

"No talk. Drink."

I always try to listen to wisdom when I hear it. I recall emptying the glass three times before reaching our room. I do not recall how much more I drank or much of anything else until the next day.

Time passed. I continued to heal physically. I was a bit concerned that I was healing enough to return to my unit and had not yet received orders home, but I let it ride.

One day, I walked past the nurses station and heard a repressed sob. I stuck my head in and found Dale in tears.

"Okay, Dale. Dry your eyes and tell ole Mickey all about it."

"I know I shouldn't be crying, Mickey. It's only that I care so much for the men here, and I try so hard and when one of them treats me like that, I don't . . ."

"Whoa. Do I hear that a soldier has been giving you a ration of shit?"

"Yes. A new patient on the West Ward. He's got leg wounds, not even as bad as yours, but he gripes and complains. Now he's started calling me names and mocking me for being an officer. What am I going to do?"

"Dale, its time to go to one of the men who runs the Army, my Bunkie."

Shortly, Sergeant Major Svenson, fully informed of the soldier's actions, left Dale and me in the room while he went to have a discourse with this recalcitrant G.I.

I poured two glasses of Jack and offered one to Dale.

"Oh, I can't. I'm on duty."

"Dale, you're a Second Lieutenant and I outrank you. I declare you temporarily off duty and order you to relax and sip a bit of medicine."

She complied. Our door was only open a few inches, and the troop in question was located halfway down another wing of the hospital. However, we had no problem knowing when the good Sergeant Major entered into his oration.

His thundering voice caromed down the corridors to us. Choice phrases included: "I'll stick my boot so far up you ass you'll need to untie the laces to see" ... "You didn't like Vietnam – wait until I have you assigned to lower Siberia where you can play directly with the Russkies, not just their AKs," and, the matchless, "If I get another report on you, I'll hurt you so bad, your mother will be sorry you were born...."

Dale had no further difficulties with anyone on the wards.

I, however, had severe distress two days later when I learned that Dr. Stensis would be leaving in forty-eight hours for a sixty day leave in the States. When I couldn't seem to get a message to him about cutting my orders for the world, the stress became extreme. I talked to Svenson, who offered to use his contacts to get me home. Comforting, but not quite what I wanted.

"Top, I think I need to go talk to the good doctor. It's that simple."

"Mickey I understand, but the Doctor's Quarters are off-limits. Going there would get you in serious trouble, that is if you could get past the locks and gates."

"Top, locks and gates? A problem? Don't think so. Have we got his exact location?"

I've got nothin' to lose.

'Cept everything.

Don't mean nothin'.

Means everything. Means going home.

Like I said, don't mean nothin'.

Top laid out the route for me. I had two gates to get through, one M.P. post to slip by, and a roving security patrol to avoid. Having healed for several weeks, I could walk okay but not run. The Doc had told me I was young and strong and my legs would only give me minimal pain for twenty years or so. He said, "From that point on you'll get to know the meaning of constant pain in an intimate fashion." Cheerful fellow.

Svenson offered to go with me. I smiled and declined. At 0001, early AM, I set out. Slipping past the M.P post was simple. Even M.P.s need to take a leak and my timing was lucky.

The first gate was eight feet tall with a two foot gap at the top. Climbing appeared to be the easier option. My left leg didn't agree but I managed to get over it and limped on.

Just before the second gate the roving patrol roved by. I stood in the shadows and practiced not breathing. Apparently, they were practicing inattention. They moved by. I breathed and moved on.

The second gate was identical to the first. My leg protested seriously but I made it over. My limp became more pronounced. The pain caused me to consider how lifelong constant pain was going to work.

At 0100 hours with two scaled fences and ineffective sentries behind me, I knocked on the Doctor's door.

"Lieutenant, what are you doing in Doctor's Quarters?"

"Doc, I have a problem. You're going on leave and I'm going to get shipped back to the 'Nam if you don't cut my orders for the world."

"Lieutenant. You're breaking more than a few rules you know."

"Sorry, about that, Doc, but I need your help."

"Well, God says we should help the crazy. Come in."

We talked. He was truly a good person. I explained my concerns about being shipped back to the war if I healed enough while he was on leave. He apologized about not taking care of it sooner and assured me he would take care of it the next morning.

I thanked him and headed back to my room. The gates opened easily from the inside and the roving patrol was roving some far shore. I slipped by the M.P. station while the guard snoozed. Guard duty is boring.

I was in bed by 0230. My legs were throbbing. I didn't sleep. But the job was, I hoped, completed.

At 0930 the next morning, Dale came to our room with a telephone.

"Call for you, Mickey."

I picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

"Lieutenant, this is Specialist Fifth Class Rogerman. I'm calling to find out where you wish to be assigned back in the United States. You get three choices and we'll do our best to accommodate you."

I guess I'll be home for Jim's wedding. I'm definitely going to discuss with him the methods he used to arrange this.

The flight home was two days later. It was a military jet, which meant where a commercial jet would seat eight in a row face forward and leave aisle space it seated eighteen faced rear with a twenty inch aisle in the middle. Close, but no one seemed to mind. The back half of the plane was reserved for stretcher cases stacked nearly as tightly as the ambulant cases. The lighting was minimal in the hopes that we would sleep most of the way.

Four hours into the flight, one of the stretcher cases came to and started screaming. "They're coming to get me! Oh God! I don't want to die! Oh please, don't let me die!"

The nurses worked quickly to get him anesthetized and asleep again.

It didn't matter. We all knew what the message was: The 'Nam Sucks. This was merely one last effort to suck us back.

We weren't going.

****

Chapter 21 ~ Afterword

I left Vietnam.

I'd done my best to accomplish my mission.

No man under my command was killed.

Some would call this success.

The thing is, Vietnam will never leave me.

My legs hurt every day. That constant pain doesn't equate to the pain inside me. My ghastly, groaning, group of green ghosts – The 'Trail', the kids, and the rest of those I killed and helped kill live in my dreams. Sleep is more a task than a relief.

Truth is they occupy my days too. Every time I turn around they are there.

I suspect that won't change in the decades ahead.

Why we were asked to do what we did remains unanswered.

I can only say, we did our job.

****

Chapter 22 ~ Forever in Black (On visiting the Wall)

Etched names, carved Forever In Black.

Payment of a blood fee.

All our sorrows won't bring them back.

They died that men should be free.

Darkness slips in. There is no way back.

The soft echo of love heard no more.

Gone the gold sunrise. Forever In Black.

Laughter goes quiet, their blood

soaking into the ground.

Some were only nominated for that dark wall.

The blood given – not required in full measure.

They stepped forward. Answered that call.

Gave so much that they cherish.

Their names are not etched in black.

For them it is hard

to survive the simple cares of life,

with a part of themselves lost

Forever In Black.

Feelings others touch, love others hold,

they can not find on a path bathed in black.

War-torn emotions frozen hard and cold,

leave them shrouded in black.

Darkness slips in. There is no way back.

The soft echo of love heard no more.

Gone the gold sunrise. Forever In Black.

Laughter goes quiet, their blood

soaking slowly into the ground.

****

Acknowledgments

If you read this novel you will understand it was not easily written. I could not have completed it without the support of my wife, Nancy R. Wheeler, who enabled me to stare into the face of some very painful memories and describe them better in my writing, and my family, especially my brother, Stephen P. Koelsch.

Although I have done a fair amount of writing in my professional career, this is my first novel. I had much to learn about writing in this form, as well as brushing up on my grammatical skills. The tremendously supportive and good people in the "Twisted Scribes", my writers group in Columbia, South Carolina, get all the kudos for any style in this writing. Any lack of the same is strictly my own fault. In particular, the assistance I received from Jay Gross, Leonard Jolley, and Fran Rizer was priceless, as is their friendship. I would note that Fran gave me a tremendous boost in my belief that I could complete this book and do it well, when, after telling me she did not like to read war novels, and after reading some of the first draft, she said, "Hurry up and get this finished. I'm dying to see how it ends."

A special word of thanks is due to Kate Mathison and to Stephen P. Koelsch for their early editorial review, which corrected a number of errors and omissions. Thom Brucie completed the final editorial review and his input on presentation of the characters, description, and story focus were truly invaluable. Thanks to all.

****

A Note From Nancy Wheeler

Mickey 6 is my husband's story. John is the strongest person I know. His experiences as a combat veteran over 40 years ago affect him every day of his life, including today. Most if not all veterans who survive combat experiences have some level of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). When a veteran has PTSD it not only impacts that veteran it affects every person who loves them: their parents, their siblings, their partners, their spouse, their children. There is help available outside of the traditional Veterans Administration Hospitals. While associated with the VA, Vet Centers or Veterans Centers offer free counseling for veterans frequently from and with people who have "been there, done that." Additionally they offer free counseling for family members both with the veteran and separately. Their locations are listed in the back of the Veteran's Handbook or you can do a computer search on "Vet Centers." If PTSD is hurting you or those you love, please contact them. Veterans Centers have had a tremendously positive impact on my husband's life... and mine. My sincerest thanks expecially to the Vet Centers, the counselors and the veterans in LaCrosse, WI and Roanoke, VA.

****

About the Author

John Koelsch served as a Combat Platoon Leader in Vietnam. He was awarded a Combat Infantryman's Badge, the Bronze Star with "V" Device for Valor, and the Purple Heart with Oak Leaf Cluster. In 2009, 2010, and 2011 he experienced positive results in the National Veterans Creative Arts Competition writing in various forms. John currently resides in Salem, Virginia with his wife Nancy Wheeler.

Publications

Strategic Budgeting (ICMA MIS Report) (5,000+ sold - Non-fiction)

A Christmas Pony (Short Story) – (Patchwork Path: Christmas Stocking Anthology)

Poetry

Love is in The Air – "Horizons" – South Carolina Writers Workshop Anthology

Shall I Lay You In Lavender – "The Quill" – SCWW Newsletter

Love Begins But Never Ends – Turning Corners – Poetry Anthology

Calm – (Haiku) – Prime Living" Magazine

Musings 1 – "Clinch Mountain Review" – Poetry Anthology

You Don't Know –Lacrossetribune.com

Fast Movers –Lacrossetribune.com

Seasons (Haiku) - Graphics By Marilyn: Lara's Den ~ Haiku: Seasons

Bugs – Graphics by Marilyn: Lara's Den ~ Bugs

Silent Thunder – Graphics by Marilyn: Lara's Den ~ Silent Thunder

The Unique Whole - Graphics By Marilyn: Lara's Den ~ The Unique Whole

Cherry Blossoms – (Haiku) Sandusky Register Newspaper

Awards

National Veterans Creative Arts Competitions

Forever In Black (Poem) – 1st Local/2009

Harvest (Poem Collection) – 1st Local/2009

The Interview (Duologue) – 1st Local & 1st National/2009

Ghosts (Monologue) – 1st Local & 3rd National/2010

The General - Keith Lincoln Ware (Short Story) – 1st Local & 1st National/2010

Andraste (Poem) – 1st Local/2010

Shirley Jeffries Memorial Therapeutic Arts Scholarship Recipient/2010

Grunts (Poem) – 1st Local & 2nd National/2011

Call Of Duty (Monologue) – 1st Local & 1st National/2011

Service (Short Story) – 1st Local/2011

Poems

Forever In Black – 1st Spiritual Category - "Poetry Square Off I" Columbia, SC /2002

Flutterbys – 3rd Open Category - "Poetry Square Off II" Columbia, SC/2003

Olde Wheelbarrow New Tulips – 2nd Adult Category – Botetourt County Library Poetry Contest, VA/2007

Short Stories

The Interview – 2nd – Virginia Writers Club (Valley Writers)/2009

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