Unexpected Gifts (3 page)

Our captain told us about how to lay low in foxholes, with our heads below sandbag level and our feet raised in grasshopper position, to keep the leech-infested water out of our boots. Also discussed were the M16A1 assault rifles and the M79 grenade launcher, The Blooper, with a firing range of 50-300 yards, and which grenade was best—pineapple, baseball, or lemon grenades.

But nothing prepared us for the insects, whizzing around our heads, hands, and throats during the day, and crawling over our bodies in our tents at night. By the second evening, I was covered with bites that itched like crazy and left me tingling all over. Soon, huge welts rose over the original bites, and the small bottles of insect repellent that had been issued to each recruit became nothing but a joke.

Our first real mission was a C&C—Command and Control expedition, heading towards Hill #287, where the VC had locked in their position and were sending out snipers to whittle away at our troop. The spectacular countryside took my breath away and as I trudged along, I kept thinking that as lush as Connecticut was in the spring and summer, this was even more magnificent. The waist high Elephant grass was the most vibrant green I had ever seen, undulating slightly whenever a breeze came up, or ferociously when a chopper either landed or took off. Water buffalos in rice paddies stood idly by, dipping their noses in refreshing water as their ears twitched and their languid, semi-hooded eyes followed our every movement in an air thick with sawing crickets.

Crack-crack-crack!
Everyone froze. “Get the fuck down!” yelled our squad leader, Sgt. Carbini.

We dropped like stones, trying to listen for snipers over our pounding chests. Several minutes passed before Carbini rose and gestured for us to get going again, and as I got up, I touched my helmet to make sure my Lucky Ace card was still there in the band. Billy R. had given it to me the first week, explaining how we really make our own luck, but it couldn't hurt to get a little added reinforcement.

Proceeding west, our jungle boots sloshed through the thick grass, with the scorching sun searing us like sizzling steaks on an ash-coated grill. I signaled Billy R. to bring me a sip from his canteen—mine had been depleted long before—and he came over, wiping his brow with his sleeve and low-whistling under his breath.

Crack-crack-crack-crack!
We all dove towards the ground, the small firearms closer than ever. Were they right on top of us? I shifted my head to the right, and to the left. Nothing. God, these bastards are in hiding everywhere!

Ahead, someone was tossing up his food, and the next thing I knew, a Medic and one other soldier had crawled over to him. Something was up. I could hear a muffled conversation between them as they hovered over the guy's body, making frantic hand movements. Then Carbini gave the All Clear signal and we got up to move out, passing by the soldier and staring at him in fascination and horror. His skin was bedsheet white, and as they poured water over his head and neck and down his throat, the Medec pronounced, “Hundred and nine degree temperature—Shit! Heatstroke.”

In three minutes he was gone, his eyes already rolling up into his head. I blinked back tears, afraid someone might see, and turning to Billy R., heard him mutter], “This damn war…”

“What was that, soldier? Huh?” Carbini was standing next to us, his veins pulsating in his neck. “Private Martin didn't drink his water, that's why he's not with us anymore, that's all. So drink your goddamn water, A-hole, and that won't happen to you!”

I wanted Billy R. to haul off and punch him, but he stayed restrained, one hand clenched down by his side, a small muscle twitching in his right cheek.

That night, while the pop of small arms and the tat-tat-tat of Soviet AK 41's riddled the air, there was much discussion about Carbini's attitude. But I stayed on my bunk, trying to ignore the stench of week old male sweat, moldy uniforms, and open boots and envisioned the time I was in summer camp at nine years old, winding down after a long, activities-filled day.

The next morning we woke to Carbini's bark, slamming our day's Search and Destroy orders into our brains at 0-500. “And don't let your Pucker Factor take over, Newbies. You're in VC country now, so let's get ready to rock ‘n roll!”

Billy R. always stayed five steps in front of me as we made our way along a narrow, muddy trail, a couple of clicks from the Mekong Delta. On one side, massive bamboo stalks shot up towards the sky, casting a murky umbrella over us as we slogged, our helmets with their taped sprouting branches making us look like miniature thatched huts. The Elephant grass in this area grew two times our height, and just beyond that, lay the slumberous river that paralleled our slow, steady progress.

Pop-pop-pop-pop!
went the M1 Carbines and we headed for the mud, sprawled out with our backpacks like turtles taking a midday snooze. I could hear Carbini whizzing some kind of order up ahead, but couldn't figure it out until he made a hand signal and Billy R. whispered, “Carbini's sending out scouts to look for VCs. Lay chilly and stay put!”

Soon, we could hear more rounds of M16's going off, then three VC's rounded up and brought over to Carbini. Even from far away, the size difference between them and us soldiers was staggering. How delicate these Charlies looked.

We could see the VC's, one soldier, and Carbini disappearing into a tent and looking around at one another, stubbed our boot toes in the mud, unsure of our responsibilities. What was next?

Instantly, we heard agonized cries in Vietnamese. “Toi khoung beit” (I don't know, Billy R. informed us), “Toi khoung beit!” was sobbed repeatedly.

Then came loud flesh smacks and a “You goddamned, slanty-eyed Commie Gooks, look at me!” from Carbini, his voice crescendoing into a screech.

I turned to Billy R. who seemed fascinated with the ground, and I suddenly realized the enormity of our situation. Carbini had lost it, and as the Vietnamese were led out of the tent with swollen, bloody faces and purple arm welts, I could feel a heaviness in my chest. Our troop was in big trouble.

That afternoon we continued on, the air strangely quiet, save for the rhythmic hiss of insects and the grass whipping against our legs and shoulders.
Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop!
Down we went, this time, the right side of my face pressed against the matted sod roots. After the All Clear, we were instructed to take cover and just wait. Sitting with Billy R. down in a gulch shaded by thick bush, he leaned back against a large rock.

“Sam, if something happens to me, take my Montagnard crossbow and arrows—they're yours.”

I stared at him, stunned. I knew how much his brother's set meant to him, but I also understood what this really implied. He had given up, and if he was giving up, what hope was there for me? My hands began to tremble.

“Okay, ladies, let's rock n' roll. We're heading on out to the next village. Remember, this is a Zippo Mission.” Carbini had already regained his composure.

Zippo Mission? I looked over at Billy R., but he just shook his head. “My brother warned me about this,” he mumbled.

Nearing the village, we passed women in their beige tunics, black pants, and Sampan hats, shouldering thick bamboo rods weighted down by buckets of water. Most kept their heads lowered as they walked, but the few who didn't, stared up at us with dead, black-brown eyes and pressed lips. The afternoon was drawing to a close by the time we reached a village compound that reeked of nuoc maum rotten fish sauce and animal dung. An old, leathery woman, squatting by her hooch was our welcoming committee, but once she saw us shuffle by, she scurried back into her hut, clacking loudly in Vietnamese as chickens pecked at rice granules, bobbing their heads up and down in 2/4 time.

Carbini cut to the chase. “First, pull every one of those gooks outta their hooches, then line them up here,” he barked.

I watched my troop comb each thatched home, rounding up families of all ages and herding them out into the open like a cattle drive in Oklahoma. I, too, started the mission and stooping into one of the huts, saw a young woman sitting on a straw mat, eating some rice in a black bowl, a young child at her side.

She was exquisite—the best possible combination of French and Chinese ancestry, with such delicate features, she made my heart ache. My immediate instincts were to protect her and her son from Carbini and this horrendous war, but she just gazed up at me, emotionless.

I could hear Carbini yelling orders to get a move-on, and I signaled this girl, this treasure, to follow me. She shook her head vehemently, and curled her legs around her son. I motioned again, but still, she refused. I froze, unable to think, but when Carbini popped his head in the doorway and snarled, “Weylan!” she got the message and followed me out.

Whimpering slightly, she joined her fellow villagers, gripping her child's hand and wiping off a tear that had slid halfway down her cheek. I suddenly pictured slave owners in pre-Civil War days and felt my lunch rise up in my throat.

“Now, get your Zippos ready, men.” As Carbini's face flushed red, I sucked in my breath. He caught sight of my reaction and came over. “Weylan here doesn't like my orders. Anyone else here who doesn't like my orders?” Nobody spoke up, not even Billy R.

He opened up one of my backpack pockets, yanked out my Zippo lighter, and shoved it into my face. Immediately, you could hear the snap of pockets opening and boots shifting. We were getting ready to Rock ‘n Roll.

Carbini was first. He marched over to a hooch, flipped on his Zippo, and carefully lit the underbelly of its thatched roof. It smoldered for a few seconds, a thin, rising wisp of smoke twisting in the tropical air. From that, a flame grew, nibbling at the straw with a low, blue heat before suddenly bursting into a torch, arcing up towards the sky in a yellow-hot blaze.

Carbini turned to us and nodded, his eyes glazed. This was our cue, yet I spun around to search for the girl, who was at the back of the pack, crying softly as she hugged her son. I glanced over at Billy R., his hands jammed deep into his pockets, and decided to follow his lead. The fire was raging full force on each hooch now, the thatch and bamboo crackling like a 4
^th
of July fireworks display, leaving its reflections in the villagers' eyes and turning the sky dark with thick, bulbous smoke.

“Weylan! You son-of-a-bitch coward! You're no better than the rest of us, you hear me?” Carbini started to charge over, then stopped mid-stride.

In the distance, a large formation of F4's was headed our way, torpedoing fireballs of napalm every several hundred yards and scattering screaming villagers down the main road. We were ordered to take cover, but followed the fleeing Vietnamese instead, charging after them and trying not to show our own fear.

The planes were getting closer, and steering the villagers into a wide ravine, everyone started gasping for breath, the napalm already sucking oxygen out of the air. I could feel a lightheadedness saturate my brain and I turned towards my delicate companion, nestled between her son and an old woman, to make sure she was all right.

“Put your masks on!” Carbini shouted just in time to see the F4's bank to the left and head away from us in a southwesterly direction. Breathing a sigh of relief, we all leaned back against the earth, listening to our chests throb and our charges chatter softly, just as a soldier up ahead shrieked with pain.

Herding the villagers off to the side, we passed by him. He was in a ten foot wide pit, trapped by the largest punji stakes I had ever seen. Blood was trickling down from his neck, shoulders, torso, and legs, and seeing the medics try to extricate him without further tears to his flesh, I turned away, scanning for the girl. I needed to see one good thing today, but she was nowhere in sight.

Further down the road, I thought I spied one of the haystacks in a nearby open field jiggle slightly. Naw, that's not possible, I'm losin' it, I thought, blinking several times to clear my eyes of the endless slide of sweat. But the stack twitched again. There was no doubt about it this time. I edged over and, remembering our RVN training, prepared for the worst. As I drew closer, the more I could see the haystack shifting. I raised my M16 and took aim. Surely there would be more movement, but instead I heard a small noise that flipped my stomach, a child's voice, pleading, immediately followed by a harsh whisper and a quick slap.

The haystack was right in front of me now, and I heel-toed around to the other side, my weapon still at shoulder level, my heart in my throat. There she was, lovely, nervous, sitting cross-legged under a carved out thatch, several U.S. pineapple grenades tied together with a long ignition coil in her lap while her son was by her side, whimpering from hunger and boredom.

The girl and I stared at one another for about four seconds—me, with horror, she, passive, just as Carbini stomped over. “What you got there, Weylan? A gook?” He took one look at her and produced a low whistle. “Jesus Christ! They're all VC's, even this pretty bitch!”

He reached over and jerked the girl up by her right arm like a rag doll, ignoring her short squeal of pain and wailing child trailing behind her. He signaled me to follow him as he marched her over to the remaining villagers standing by the roadside, and at last I could see an emotion sketched across their faces—fear.

Carbini waited for the rest of the troop to gather before giving his order in a steely voice. “Weylan, get out your small arm.”

I could see Billy R. standing with the others. “Sir?”

“You heard me, you sackashit. Get out your small arm.”

“I was never issued one, sir.”

“You caught a VC in a terrorist act, A-hole. Now you're going to shoot her.” He pulled out his own .45 pistol, slammed a new magazine in it, and shoved it into my hand.

“But—but the Geneva Convention says…”

“I don't give a rat's
ass
what the Geneva Convention says. That's a direct order, soldier!”

I gazed at his purple face, twisted with hate and all I could think was God, please give him a massive coronary.

“Do it or you're court marshaled, Weylan!” Could he do that? I didn't know, but just then Billy R. stepped up.