Young Man In Vietnam Part 5

If you ain't got no people, you ain't got no war."

8 THE WOUNDED.

Blood is the currency of war. It's just like money really. You try to invest yours - to get as high a return as possible. And you try to spend the enemy's. But, unlike money, war doesn't require any fancy conversion tables. You can figure your investment with something as simple as a life. In Vietnam the field aid station is one of the places where the results of the investment are measured. And the field aid station is where you go to visit two of your wounded men.

You don't like hospitals very much. It probably started when you were very young and you watched your mother die in one. You remember the strong chemical smells and the scrubbed look of the nurses and doctors. You remember how busy everyone was and the bells ringing softly and calling away one doctor after another. You remember how clean and bright the sheets were and how tired and gray your mother's face looked against the pillow. That may have started it, but the field aid station has added something of its own.

If a battle has been going on for a long time, the aid stations literally run with blood. After a while you can recognize when a stain was made by its color and smell. If a stain is very old - a week - it is dark brown and only smells faintly. The fresher it is the brighter it is - and the more it smells. You can't really describe the smell. You can say that it's sweet and sickly and sharp. You can say that it makes you gag and want to vomit. You can say it smells like many things. And it does. But you can't describe it. You have to experience it.

You notice the brown stain on the tent flap that serves as a door for the aid station. You can barely see it and you decide that the. stain must be very old. A doctor in an olive-drab jacket looks up from a pile of papers he is sifting through and you ask him where you can find two men from your unit who have been wounded and brought here for treatment. He checks a roster and gives you the tent number and says they plan to evacuate one of the men to the Philippines later in the day. You ask him how they are and he unb.u.t.tons his jacket pocket and takes out a pipe and some tobacco. He begins to fill the pipe and he gives you that special look all doctors must learn to pa.s.s their first year at medical school - the look they reserve for those times a non-doctor asks so foolish and unanswerable a question as how a patient is. You recognize the look and don't wait to hear the second-year medical school reply.

You find the tent your men are in and sc.r.a.pe the mud from your boots before you go in. The tent smells heavily of canvas and rubbing alcohol, but the flaps have been rolled up and the air moves freely. There is a corpsman sleeping on a cot at the far end of the tent. You suppose there must be a regulation about checking in with him, but you see your men and walk quickly to their cots.

One of them - a staff sergeant - was blinded by shrapnel from a short artillery round. They don't know how serious it is and he will be sent to Clark Field in the Philippines for further examination. His head has been wrapped with several layers of gauze bandages and looks grotesquely out of proportion. You whisper a greeting to him and take his hand and shake it and tell him you wanted to see him before they flew him out. He laughs and says that he'd like to be able to see his departure. You feel his hand trembling and you realize you have been holding it and you release it.

Your other man is a corporal who was wounded in the arm. The bullet went in about six inches above his elbow and came out the other side. The corporal has no feeling in the arm. He asks you how things are going back at the unit and says he wishes he were back there with you. You tell him that he's better off where he is - especially with all his pretty nurses. The wounded man looks toward the sleeping corpsman and shakes his head sadly.

"That stupid swabbie ain't even a sailor, Lieutenant, let alone a nurse."

"You'll be back with some real nurses soon," you tell him. You know they can't treat nerve damage in Vietnam and that they will probably send him to the naval hospital on Guam when they decide that he isn't faking and that there is nothing more they can do for him at the aid station.

You ask the sergeant if he needs anything. You tell him they are going to fly him to the Philippines later and that the clerks back at the unit have packed up his things and will ship them to him as soon as he gets settled. He asks about shaving gear. You say that the Red Cross people who will meet his plane at Clark will give him all he needs. He shakes his head and says the only other thing he needs is a new pair of eyes. You tell him not to give up on the pair that he has.

You talk with your men about the weather and how the food is and what is going on back at your unit. You tell them what happened during the operation after they were wounded. You tell them you killed more of the enemy than you actually did because you know it will make them feel good and you only have to lie a little to make it sound like a major victory. You get them to talk about their wives back home and you know they are feeling better now.

A corpsman comes into the tent and tells the sergeant that they have to get him ready for an air-evac to Clark and you tell both of your men that it's time for you to go. You shake hands with them and joke again with the corporal about the nurses. You pa.s.s the doctor's tent on the way to your jeep and you can smell his pipe tobacco. It seems strange and foreign after the canvas and alcohol.

In the jeep on the way back to your outfit you hear the roar of a transport plane and you look up and watch it heading eastward toward the sea. You wonder if the sergeant is on it and you think what it must be like to be blind. But you can't afford to think about that for very long and you force it out of your mind and stare at the twisted dirt road carrying you back to your unit and to war.

9 THE PATROL.

There are many ways of getting on a patrol. You can be on a regular rotation list. Or you can volunteer. Or your CO can pick you because he doesn't like you. Or you can just happen to be near the operations tent when a mission comes up. But one thing remains the same - if you go looking for trouble long enough you're bound to find it. And you only hope you're ready when it comes.

You don't know why you walk past the operations tent. You know what it can lead to. But you're bored with filing service record books and checking defensive positions and signing casualty reports. You tell yourself you're going to the Lister bag for water, but you don't believe it.

An hour later you have a patrol - and a mission. There are three kinds of patrols. On a reconnaissance patrol you look for information - and try not to be seen. On an ambush patrol you establish a position - and wait for an enemy who seldom comes. On a combat patrol you look for the enemy - and try to kill him. You have a combat patrol.

You were in the area the patrol is to move through several weeks earlier on a battalion sweep. It is rugged terrain with hills hundreds of meters high. There are sudden drops from the trails. The jungle canopy blots out the sun and makes the trails hot, damp tunnels forever shrouded in half-light and shadows. There are many good ambush sites for the enemy. But because it's bad and because no one has tried it before and because you have a Nung guide, a Chinese mercenary, you have a chance - if you depend on surprise, and luck.

You have to walk in. It will take about two days. Helicopters could get you there in minutes. But they would sacrifice surprise. They will be standing by for medical evacuations.

You only have a few hours to ready the patrol - so elaborate preparations and rehearsals are out. You check your equipment. There will be little demolition work so there's no need to carry satchel charges and plastic explosives. You will carry extra ammunition instead. But you don't want to burden your men with excess gear. You have a long way to go and you have to be prepared to move fast. You will wear soft caps and jungle uniforms instead of helmets and flak jackets. You check your men and brief them and joke with them. And you hope the war will be over before you leave.

You and your men have been at Vung Mu together. And at Tarn Quan. And Phu Thu. And Que Son. And a thousand nameless places. Places where you knew fear and suffering and death. And a thousand more where you knew courage and hope and victory. There is a bond between you.

You feel lost when you leave your lines on a mission. It doesn't matter how often you do it - it's always the same. You're leaving something safe - something secure - for a few hours or days or perhaps forever. The men in your outposts don't like to look at you as you pa.s.s. You're dead men to them - until you return.

Your radioman whispers the call signal even though you're only minutes outside your lines.

It's a hot day. The monsoons are months away. Your mind begins to wander in spite of your efforts to concentrate on the things you have to do as patrol leader. The soles of your feet sting as the heat from the ground works through your boots. You remember driving across America as a boy with your family. You remember stopping in the New Mexico desert at a little drugstore and hearing your father order limeades for everyone. You'd never had a limeade before and you remember the waitress squeezing some tiny green limes by hand. The drink was tart and cold and refreshing. It made you feel very cool and you wish you had one now. You pull one of your canteens from its pouch and take a deep draught. It's still cool and it's a lot better than the paddy water you'll be drinking in a few hours.

Your Nung guide speaks very little English, but he has worked with Americans before and he understands the hand and arm signals you worked out at the CP. He is taller than the Vietnamese and with his shaven head he looks like a Malay pirate. He walks on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet and is very quiet and watchful. You decide he won't give you away. But you keep your eye on him.

By the first nightfall you have come almost twelve miles. You move your patrol off the trail and up a little finger of ground. You have them fan out into a 360-degree perimeter for the night. No fires are allowed. Smoke could give your position away. There is no talking. You designate a brief time for opening C rations and eating. The cans will be buried in the morning.

After you have whispered your instructions to the squad leaders you settle down. It is still hot and will be all night. There is nothing to do but endure it. You keep thinking of that limeade.

Everyone is ready to go before first light. No one has slept very much. You finish the last of your G.I. water. You motion to your squad leaders to have someone collect canteens and fill them in the stream near the ridge. They will have to last the day.

It doesn't take long to work out the night's stiffness. Everyone is watchful now and alert. A monkey sits in a coconut palm watching the patrol struggle up a jungle trail. He seems fascinated. You look back to note how many of the men have seen the monkey. Most of them have. That's a good sign.

Your point man freezes and the patrol halts. You hear safeties clicking off and you move forward to see what the trouble is. The trail empties into a small clearing and there are three or four huts standing on the far side. A water buffalo grazes at the edge of the clearing and some women and children thresh rice in front of one of the huts. You look at the Nung and he nods - it is all right. You tell two scouts to take the Nung and search the area. They understand; they will kill the Nung if there is an ambush.

You watch them move through the clearing and toward the huts. The water buffalo snorts and continues to graze. The women look up and seem terrified. It is bad for them to know you are here. Your men disappear into the huts and into the surrounding bush. In a few minutes they signal all clear. The Nung is nodding - they are friendly.

Your patrol moves through the clearing and is swallowed up by the jungle again. It is very hot now - well over 100 degrees. You begin to feel dizzy, but you look at the ground and force yourself to walk ahead. By late afternoon you can hardly see anymore. The sweat drops into your eyes and stings them as fast as you mop your brow. Your clothes are soaked and they cling to your body and sc.r.a.pe it raw. You halt the patrol and have the corpsman issue salt tablets to the men. The Nung isn't sweating at all. He just hunkers down and grins.

Some of your men have been sick. You feel sick yourself. But you know you are close to your staging area and you want to reach it by nightfall. The troops can rest there.

A staging area should be close enough to the enemy to move to the attack quickly. But the area must be secure enough to allow the final preparations for combat. The map indicates such a position about six hundred meters from the enemy base camp. You want to move to an attack position at night and attack at dawn.

You reach your staging area just at dusk. The men are too tired to eat. They just lie down and go to sleep. After posting sentries, you take your squad leaders and the Nung and move off to recon the guerrilla camp.

The camp sits at the juncture of two streams. The streams form a waterfall and the noise of the water masks the sounds of the enemy. It will mask your approach as well. From a rise overlooking the camp you can see the enemy preparing their meal. A small group is washing clothes in one of the streams. You can see an enemy sentry upstream. He is dozing and his head keeps nodding and jerking.

It took you less than an hour to move from your staging area to where you will a.s.sault the camp. You think you will be able to move your troops in about three hours. You will let them rest until midnight and then you'll move the final distance.

You decide that the final distance will be easier if you move your men through the jungle to a position between the enemy sentry and the base camp. You can walk the rest of the way in the stream. The stream is about three meters wide and a meter deep. The rush of the water will drown the sounds of your approach. The Nung can have the sentry.

Your plan is to set up a base of fire with one squad at the southern end of the camp. After they have poured fire through the camp for about thirty seconds, you will launch an a.s.sault wave composed of the rest of the platoon. You will place a couple of fire teams to cover your attack and pick off enemy stragglers.

You wake your squad leaders at midnight and have them prepare their men. You are anxious to get it over with. You are too tired to think about casualties or ambushes or traps. The mission is the only thing that matters. You have your plan and you will not change it. You have no imagination left to think up a new one.

Moving at night is always slow. And this close to the enemy it is slower than usual. The terrain is rough, and you have to concentrate all your efforts on it. You forget about the enemy for a while. But at every snapping branch you remember why you're here. By this time you are committed. Your memories of the mutilated bodies of captured Marines, your thoughts of home, your desire to do your job - all are lost in the simple logic that after this operation is over you will rest. One way or another.

The night is so dark you have to maintain physical contact between the men or the column will be broken. You can hear the stream in the distance and you think about the enemy sentry. The water is very cold when you reach the stream. After walking in it for a short while your feet grow numb and you seem very clumsy trying to feel your way along.

You smell the base camp before you see a smoldering cooking fire and the outline of some huts framed against the night sky. All the enemy appear to be asleep. You halt the patrol and your squad leaders take their men to the preplanned positions. There is nothing to do now but wait until dawn - about an hour away.

You don't think during that hour. You enjoy the feeling of the ground as you press yourself against the stream bank. You turn your mind off - perhaps because you're too tired to do anything else. Perhaps because you don't want to think about what you'll be doing in a few minutes.

There is a stirring in the enemy camp and you realize you have been dozing. You curse yourself and look at your watch. It is ten minutes past BMNT (begin morning nautical twilight) - it is first light. The guerrilla base camp is a maze of shadows and huts - all the grayish color of the early morning. You are with the base of fire and the signal for the attack is to be the firing of your automatic rifle. You notice some of your men looking at you and you nod at them and push off the safety.

You pick a hut on the extreme left of the camp and rest it on the front sight blade of your rifle. You press the trigger and squeeze off a long burst. The hut shivers and pieces of it fly off at all angles. The morning explodes with the deafening stutter of automatic rifle fire. Enemy soldiers fall out of their huts and run a few steps before a burst cuts them down. Someone has kicked over a pen of chickens and they are flapping about adding their presence to the chaos.

The base of fire pours forty rounds apiece into the camp, and when you throw a red smoke grenade they stop. It takes about thirty seconds to fire six thousand rounds. Now it's up to the a.s.sault wave.