Death in the Jungle (32 page)

No sooner wished than done. Meston turned around. Our eyes met and I motioned for him to wait. Schrader went ahead to tell the lieutenant about the footprints and the bunker. The rest of us held our positions, eyeing the brush around us. I was fully aware that our easy op could suddenly evolve in an unexpected direction.

While Schrader and Meston discussed the situation in whispers, I held my CAR-15 a little firmer. At the same time, because of her added firepower—the 40 mm grenade launcher—I wished I were holding Bad Girl instead. Making a quick mental inventory, I knew we had two Stoner machine guns and two M-79 grenade launchers among us, which wasn’t too shabby, unless we stumbled into a company of two hundred slopeheads, who were a bit perturbed at our treatment of their bunkers. In that case, we were undermanned and undergunned.

I looked again at the many human tracks crossing through the area, and I believed, in fact, that an encounter
was a surety. An instant later, an abrupt burst of gunfire scared the living shit out of me.

I dropped to my knees and swung my rifle toward the rear where the shooting was taking place. I saw Dicey firing his M-16 into the brush beside him as Moses fired two 40mm HE grenades into the same patch of jungle. The grenades blew, then the two men held their fire and stared for a moment at I-don’t-know-what. A few seconds later, I did know what as Moses signaled that they had shot at two VC. One had dropped and the other had crawled away wounded.

Suddenly I heard excited male voices in the jungle to my left. The language spoken was clearly Vietnamese. This convinced me that we’d walked right into an enemy unit.

“Recon by fire!” Meston yelled at us. All twelve of us sprayed the surrounding brush with our weapons. The shooting spree lasted only ten seconds due to the fact that we’d brought less than half of a normal load of ammo on this op and had to conserve our resources.

Mr. Meston signaled for Dicey and Moses to recon what was now our right flank, and Pearson and I moved to recon the left. After a short exploration, during which we found more human footprints but no human beings, we returned to the others. Dicey and Moses came back with two weapons that had been dropped by the VC they had drilled.

We were totally compromised. Every enemy soldier within a mile or two knew we were there, having had the pleasure of listening to our weapons emphatically bid them to go to hell. Uncomfortably aware of this, Mr. Meston gave a circular hand motion which told us to set up a hasty defense, a 360-degree circle, while he radioed for extraction via the choppers. I picked out a good spot of concealment in the brush where I sat down.

Ten minutes passed by. The only thing happening
was it was getting darker. I looked at the sky, and I realized the severity of our situation. If we weren’t rescued within one hour, the black of night would have us, the helo pilots wouldn’t be able to land, and we’d be left to fend for ourselves until morning. The thought of spending the night was not comforting, as we’d be stuck in a most vulnerable position: in enemy territory with inadequate firepower, and the enemy knowing where we were. If there were a couple hundred gooks in there, as I believed, then our chances of surviving through the night were virtually nil. At dawn, many dead bodies would greet our pilots. VC bodies, that was. And there would be twelve dead SEALs, too, in need of laudatory tombstones and posthumous awards.

My fears grew darker when Mr. Meston passed word that Bravo Platoon had been ambushed by the Viet Cong in the T-10 area and the helos were trying to save their butts. There was nothing that could be done for us at that time. We had to simply hang on and wait. And hope, and pray.

I kept my eyes moving, searching the brush for any sign of movement. Several minutes crept by, but nothing and nobody crept into view. All was quiet except my breathing and my heartbeat. Both sounds were abnormally audible to me.

My level of stress heightened as a half hour passed. My head ached. I was sweating profusely, mostly due to high anxiety. I felt as though I’d soon sweat blood. Our status was more than critical. We were in desperate need of some intensive care. We were in need of a life flight.

It became dark enough that the helo pilots would have trouble with their depth perception and may be forced to abort an attempted landing. Of course, if they didn’t show up in a few minutes, we wouldn’t concern ourselves with such trivialities. Instead, we’d focus our attention on a thing called impending death.

I heard a twig break in the brush in front of me, which was the last thing I wanted to hear. I raised my CAR-15 to my shoulder. More rustling occurred, then I glimpsed something white. My right index finger curled loosely around the trigger. I refused to blink, peering relentlessly at the white object as it moved toward me in the shadows of the nipa palm. It looked like a ghost, like walking death, and that image startled me for a moment until my eyes convinced my brain that it was only an egret—a tall, white heron.

I relaxed my grip on the rifle and slowly lowered it to my lap. Then I didn’t move, as I didn’t want to flush the bird so that enemy eyes could pinpoint our exact position. The long-necked heron stepped precariously closer, however, and looked right at me. I stared squarely into its eyes, again denying a blink. I hoped my camouflage face paint and clothing would be enough to keep the giant wings still if I just didn’t flinch.

As we gazed at one another for a seemingly endless half a minute, my ears picked up a distant sound—a
whir
. I heard it for a few more seconds before I allowed myself to believe that helicopters were approaching. Fifteen seconds later, I didn’t care about the heron anymore. I turned my head and looked above the eastern treetops, eager to lay my eyes on much bigger birds that were capable of giving me a ride out of there.

I heard the heron flapping its wings and lifting off the jungle floor, but I didn’t glance back at it even once. My eyes remained glued on the darkened sky where the crescendo of chopper music was playing. And my eyes were rewarded with the sight of two Army Cobras flying in to put the VC in their place—the grave.

Mr. Meston had directed the Cobras right to us with the radio, and our position was identifiable from the air by our blue strobe lights. With this knowledge secured, the helo crews opened up on the surrounding jungle with
mini-guns and rockets. Flying low, they swooped in and around in a tight racetrack pattern, firing all kinds of shit on the straightaways. The thunderous roar hurt my ears, but it was the kind of hurt I’d been praying for.

“Give ’em hell!” I shouted as a Cobra passed directly over my head and blasted the nearby masses of vegetation. “Hoo-yah, baby!” I found myself smiling. My whole being was overflowing with joy. Just like in the movies, a last-minute rescue was taking place, and I was one of the lucky, mud-sucking swamp rats who was being snatched from the bite of the Grim Reaper. I hollered again as the second Cobra went by, pounding the liberated jungle.

Two army slicks flew in behind the Cobras’s last run. They hovered over a clear area at our left flank, preparing to land. Mr. Meston yelled at us to head for the choppers. Without a moment’s pause, we did.

As I hurried toward the clearing, I saw the slicks hanging in the sky, hesitating from descending, like a couple of huge hawks that were unsure of themselves. I knew the problem: a lack of depth perception for the pilots in the dark. I silently prayed that there was enough light left for our rescue. It would have been a real bitch to have gotten this close to a reprieve only to have lost it at the last minute.

Fortunately, the most beautiful sight I’d ever seen occurred as first one slick, then the other, set down on the ground. Twelve happy SEALs jumped aboard, six on each helo. The slicks lifted off the jungle floor and climbed into the sky, joining the wonderful Cobras for a euphoric trip back to Nha Be.

“Hoo-yah!” The cry rang out with more heartfelt sentiment than I’d ever heard before.

“Hoo-yah!” I echoed, feeling a flood of relief. I looked at Moses and Dicey and could barely see their grins in the darkness. “You two deserve a medal!” I told them. They
didn’t say anything. And what was there to say, really? They had killed a man, probably two, out of necessity, for there was a war going on. The two had been our enemies, they had rifles, and they would’ve shot at us if they had had the chance. Cut-and-dried. Yes, in a war it was cut-and-dried. But it was not for medals that Dicey and Moses had pulled their triggers: it had been for their lives.

After a couple of minutes, the exuberance inside the helo was quelled by Mr. Meston’s yelling for our attention. I stared at his dark figure sitting on the deck across from me, having a difficult time seeing his face. He turned his head once away from me, presenting his profile, and one of his eyes gleamed momentarily, reflecting a bit of light from somewhere. Perhaps the moonlight.

The rest of us were quiet for several seconds as we waited for him to speak. Only the sounds of the helo penetrated our space.

Finally from the darkened lieutenant came some dark, dark words. “Bravo Platoon got hit bad,” he said, his voice cracking. “Antone was point man and never knew what hit him. The VN was killed, too. He was gutshot and bled to death before he could be medevacked.” My own guts sank inside of me. My joy over living was slain at the news of my teammates’ dying.

Meston cleared his throat, then added, “Lieutenant Van Heertum, Payne, and one other, I’m not sure who, were wounded. They were lucky to get out alive. The VC had ’em trapped in an L-shaped ambush on a trail.” I lowered my head, weighed down by the heavy details. My senses were dulled. My body was weak. A feeling of exhaustion drained into my limbs. Then a thought flashed in my mind that caused me to see red. Bravo Platoon was a new platoon that had no business being in T-10. They weren’t ready for it. Hell, Foxtrot Platoon had been in Vietnam for a month before we had been sent into the T-10. Bravo had just gotten there twelve
days before. Damn! I hated mistakes, especially when they were unalterable. For Frank Antone, there would be no second chance.

I looked out the open doorway at the black sky. Many stars were glimmering, and I wondered if Antone was anywhere near one of them. I wondered what he now knew that I didn’t know.

For the remainder of the trip back to the naval base, my teammates and I kept quiet. Each person was left to his own thoughts and sense of loss. When we finally touched down on the helo pad, I was the first one out the door. I walked directly to the showers to refresh myself and rinse the dirt from my clothes.

As I started to enter the shower, I noticed a pile of cammo clothing on the ground near the head. In the light emanating from the latrine, I saw blood stains on the clothes. I saw bullet holes, too. I could smell the odor of blood in the air. I could taste it in my mouth. I stood momentarily frozen, stunned by the sight. The evidence of Bravo Platoon’s day of dissolution lay before me. The cold facts were revealed.

I stepped to the clothing and bent down to pick up the shirt on top, but as my fingers touched it, I changed my mind and pulled my hand way. Death was better left alone, I thought, and I wiped my fingers on my pant leg. I returned to the shower, stepped inside and turned on the water. It was slightly cold, but the water felt good as it splashed against my head and ran through my clothes. I turned my face into the spray and opened my mouth to rinse it out. Then I turned away and dropped my head, allowing the stream of water to pound against the back of my neck.

After a few minutes, the water had washed away all of the external grime and dirt. I only wished it could have washed away the pain and misery inside my heart.

Sitting in a new EM club and drinking a few beers seemed to be the best antidote for the depression that hit when a teammate died. Of course, sometimes the alcohol drowned me in a deeper depression; therefore, it was probably not the best remedy, after all. But on a tiny naval base in the middle of freakin’ nowhere, it was the only remedy in which I had any faith, flimsy though that faith was.

I had attended a Catholic Mass a couple of days before, where a priest had said something about putting one’s faith in God. I believed he’d had the right answer, but God was hard to find in Vietnam, unless His name was Buddha. In that case, God had a lot of problems of His own, starting with several too many pounds around the middle. Anyway, I’d maybe give God a real chance in my life someday, because I’d gotten this notion He could help me. Right then, though, the beer in my hand needed tending.

As I glanced around the bar, I noticed that the base personnel were giving all the SEALs a wide berth because of the deaths. Each of my teammates gathered around me had a weird look on his face, sort of a shocked expression, but no one was shedding any tears. Instead, some were even laughing, but the laughter was forced and had a hollow ring to it. Everything seemed so strange.

“Man, did we ever walk into a pile of shit today,” Funkhouser mumbled. He was perched on a bar stool to my right, nursing a glass of branch-and-bourbon.

“Right up to our noses,” agreed McCollum, sitting to my left, drinking a beer.

Between sips out of a can of Black Label, I said, “We’re lucky we’re not still out there.”

Funkhouser nodded. “Two or three minutes later, those pilots couldn’t have landed. Damn, that was close!”

“Close isn’t the word for it.” I declared. “How ’bout gut-wrenching?”

“How ’bout ball-breaking?” said McCollum, bringing the dialog down to the level at which SEALs seemed to be most comfortable: rock bottom.

“Ball-breaking it is!” asserted Funkhouser, raising his glass of whiskey-and-water in the air in mock salute. “Here’s to the Nutcracker Suite.”

I hoisted my beer can upward. “And to whoever the hell wrote it, may his balls rest in peace.”

Two hours later, I was certifiably drunk. Somebody I could barely see kicked me out of the club. I stumbled and wove my way to a bed and fell into it, not even sure it was mine. I thought for a moment about getting up to check, but a sudden rush of booze flooded my cerebral circuit board. I visualized myself falling off a cliff, spinning and whirling into a dark chasm with sparks spitting all around me. Everything went totally black when my body plunged into a pit of water and my life was washed away.