Young Man In Vietnam Part 7

When you lose men you always remember - and you always think it's your fault - that if you'd done things a bit differently your men would be alive.

You write the name of your corpsman at the top of the page. You write Silver Star next to it. Your clerks can put it all in the right form. You think how the clerks always stay behind and a sudden shock of anger overwhelms you. But they just do their job. Like everyone else, they do what they're told. You can't blame them for losing your men.

You write how your corpsman repeatedly exposed himself to hostile fire to tend injured Marines. You write how he was. .h.i.t in the arm, but continued to aid the wounded. The pencil stub keeps slipping. It is too small. You wish you could write how proud you were of the corpsman - of how far he had come since he first joined your outfit. He used to fall out on every march and he was always late to formation and sloppy. You wish you could convey how very much he hated being posted to the Marines. He joined the Navy, he'd told you, to go to sea, not to run around the rice paddies looking after a lot of neurotic jarheads. You wish you could write how proud he'd become of the Marine insignia your troops had given him and how he'd gotten into a fight with another corpsman who had made fun of the insignia. You want to tell how very bad the fire was when he crawled out to help a wounded squad leader and how he dragged the man back, but the Marine was dead when they reached safety. You ought to be able to put that in reports. You ought to be able to tell your superiors what it was truly like so they wouldn't knock the corpsman's Silver Star down to a Bronze Star or a Commendation Medal. But there is no place for that on reports.

You think of Gunny Mac. He'd been your platoon sergeant for a few weeks over a year ago - when you were on Okinawa with India Company. He was doing his job when he was killed. You had ordered him to have his platoon a.s.sault some enemy machine-gun positions. You knew it would be bad - that you'd lose men. But you knew you had to get the enemy machine guns or you'd all be in trouble. Gunny Mac had been the first one to cross the trench line, and an enemy .50 struck him on the jaw and tore off the back of his skull. The book would say that he didn't rate a medal - that he was just doing his job - but the book couldn't know what it took to lead that charge.

There are others - many others - who rate medals and recognition. You want to write them all up, but you know you can't. You know Battalion would never approve them - that every CO feels the same way about his men - that you have to pick the very best and reward them.

You finish writing and put on your boots. You walk to your company office and talk with your first sergeant about the weather and when the monsoons will come and if you can get extra foul-weather gear for the troops. You give your reports and medal requests to the clerks to type.

As you leave the company office you see your corpsman sitting on an empty water can by the side of the tent. His face is in his hands and his body heaves irregularly. You realize he is crying - not loudly, but soft and wet. You touch his shoulder and shake him gently, but he doesn't stop crying and he doesn't say anything.

You get the doctor, and he takes the corpsman to his tent. You wait at your company office to find out what is wrong. Your first sergeant offers you coffee in a tin cup and tells you he had seen many cases like this in World War II, but not many in Vietnam.

The coffee is cold and weak, but you drink it because there isn't anything else to do as you wait. In a little while the doctor comes in and tells you he has sent the corpsman to the hospital ship off Da Nang for a rest. He calls it combat fatigue and says that the corpsman's best friend, a Marine in another company, had been killed yesterday. The corpsman had just learned of it. Coming as it did after your operation was too much for him. The doctor says the corpsman will probably be back from the hospital ship in a week or so.

As you walk toward your tent you see the battalion adjutant and you stop to talk with him. You tell him about the corpsman and ask him if he can hurry the medal request through to Division. He nods and tells you he'll do what he can. You think it would be nice to have the medal waiting when your corpsman returns.

12 THE LETTER.

One of your company clerks stops by your tent and hands you two damp and very limp letters. You read the return addresses and see that one is from a girl you know back home. She was always young and fresh and vibrant. You liked to be with her because she could make you feel that way too. You wonder if she still could. You put her letter aside and open the one from your father.

The rain drums hard on the roof of your tent. The monsoons have begun. It has rained steadily for ten days. There is a sudden splash on the end of the footlocker you are sitting on. A leak. You move to your cot to read the letters.

You lie on your back on the cot and stare at the gray sheets of water falling outside. The rain is coming straight down and you have rolled up the sides of the tent to get as much air as you can. You feel the long ridges of the rubber air mattress pressing into your back. You think of lying on the beach with Peggy. You remember the taste of the salt.w.a.ter in your mouth and how cold the wind felt until you dried off. You remember talking with Peggy about the future and what you would do. You remember how soft the touch of her hand was and how her hair used to get in the way when you kissed. She would brush it aside and smile at you and laugh softly. And how blue her eyes were.

You turn on your side and begin to read. Your father has gotten a promotion and is thinking of buying a new house. The weather in Connecticut has been very cold and he has built a fire in the fireplace every night for the past week. The dog and the cat are fine. Your stepmother sends her regards.

You hear a curse through the drumbeat of the rain and you look up and see a Marine struggling through the mud. He stumbles and catches himself on a branch. The mud sucks at his boots and he moves very slowly toward your perimeter defenses. One of your sergeants is making his rounds. His squad is on the line and he always takes a pack full of extra rations to them when he checks positions. You can see the bulge the pack makes on his back underneath the poncho. The pack makes him look like a humpback as he fights his way through the mud toward his men.

You open Peggy's letter and hold it to your nose. It still smells very faintly of her. You wonder why girls always perfume their letters. You take a deep breath and decide you don't care why. You like it.

She is still working in New York and writes wonderful long letters telling you how she is decorating her apartment and how you would like the new painting a friend gave her. She writes of the times you had together and how awful the war must be for you. She tells you she bought a book of Robert Frost's poetry for you and is sending it directly.

You laugh to yourself as you remember an autumn day at college when you tried to explain poetry's New Criticism to her. You were building a carefully organized argument about the need for New Criticism in modern poetry when she reached out and touched your hand. You forgot about New Criticism as you held her tightly.

You put the letter down and stare into the wet grayness. You want to hold her again very badly.

A drop of water splashes on your chest and you sit up suddenly - startled. Another leak. You get up and kick your footlocker, but the leak doesn't stop. You open the locker and look for a tent-patching kit you have in there someplace.

The locker smells moldy and everything is damp to the touch. You can't find the kit, so you move your cot away from the leak and begin to read again.

Two sharp rifle shots cut the wetness and you feel your skin tingle in antic.i.p.ation. You grab your pistol belt and sling it over your shoulder and begin to run toward the perimeter - where the shots came from.

The pounding rain soaks you in a few seconds. The mud grabs at your boots and tries to hold you back. You are only aware of the mud. You hear more shots and a machine gun opens up ahead of you. From the sound it makes you can tell it's one of yours.

As you reach your lines you see a Marine walking toward you very slowly. His face is twisted and he looks like he has been crying, but it's too wet to tell. You recognize him as one of the sergeant's men and you slow to ask him about the shots.

He holds up an empty haversack and you can see two bullet holes - about ten inches apart - cut neatly through the pack.

"Dead," is all he says.

You see two Marines carrying the sergeant's body back toward the CP. Another Marine is dragging the body of the enemy sniper who killed his squad leader.

The rain feels very cold. You look down as the men carry the body past you. You realize you have been holding Peggy's letter in your left hand the whole time. The ink is hopelessly blurred. You crumple it into a ball and drop it into the mud and begin to walk back to your tent to make your report.

13 THE SOUVENIR.

Four hearts. You close the bidding and lean back on your cot to study the dummy. The contract will give you a rubber. You can make an extra trick if your finesse for the queen of diamonds works.

You have been playing bridge since breakfast and soon it will be too hot to continue. The air is very still and the mosquito netting hangs limply where the sides of the tent have been rolled up. The rains will be coming again soon - you can smell them. But it's still hot.

You decide Jack has the queen and you finesse through him. It works. You announce the rest of the hand is a laydown. You are just beginning to tally up the score when a runner from the battalion headquarters tells you that you are all wanted at the CP right away.

You have been through many alerts - so many you can't remember them all. But you never know. The battalion commander looks grim. He tells you that two battalions of ARVN rangers on a sweep have run into trouble south of Da Nang, that Marine battalions from all the enclaves are being lifted in, that you have to be ready to go in an hour. He tells you that you will be heli-lifted to a point near Que Son where you will link up with two other battalions.

You walk quickly to your company office and issue instructions to your staff. They must be ready in forty-five minutes. They can draw extra ammunition and rations from battalion supply.

You don't know how long you'll be in the field. You take two tins of spiced beef and a can of apricots from your C rations and roll them in your poncho with an extra pair of socks. You tie the poncho to the back of your pistol belt. You don't like packs - even though you can carry more. Packs slow you down. You make sure your magazines are loaded and you wipe them with an oily rag. Your gunnery sergeant comes by and gives you a map of the area you are to be in.

You put on your pistol belt. You don't buckle it - you let it hang by its shoulder straps. As you walk toward Jack's tent you wonder what this operation will be like. You've been on eight combat operations and several patrols. You never get used to them.

Jack is loading his magazines and you sit on his cot and take a cigar from your pocket and light it.

"Just a little one," Jack says, "just a little nick in the leg. Just enough to get sent home."

You laugh. "I'd rather get it in the arm."

"They never send you home with one of those."

"You've got a point," you say.

He pulls on his pack and hangs his helmet on one of his canteens.

"You got another cigar?"

You hand him one and stand up. It's like before a football game or a wrestling match. The b.u.t.terflies are churning in your stomach and you can't make them stop. Maybe it's the air. Maybe it's those ARVN rangers. Maybe you've been in Vietnam too long.

The helicopters are warming up. You turn your back to them as you wait with your heli-team. The wind from the rotors kicks up dust and you can feel pebbles stinging your back. The motor's noise is deep and resonant and your whole body vibrates to its rhythm.

You are all the way aft - near the tail of the helicopter. There are no benches and you sit on the deck with your knees under your chin. You can see out the port hatch and the interior smells of oil and exhaust fumes.

You pa.s.s over Que Son and you look for the area you're to land in. You search the terrain for friendly troops - something to orient you when you land. But you don't land. They are taking you toward a large horseshoe-shaped hill about a mile from the village. You see tracers flashing by the helicopter and splashes in the rice paddies where rounds are hitting. You squeeze your legs a little closer to your body and you rub your hand against your holster.

The helicopter begins its descent. The pilot is autorotating to avoid the slower circular approach. There is a loud crack above the roar of the engine. An oil line ruptures' and a black smear begins to grow on the deck near you. You realize you are taking rounds. You want to run - to move - to get out of the helicopter.