Guns Up! (2 page)

As the indoctrination continued I became more confused. I wasn’t sure if this guy was saying this crap because it was procedure or if we were really supposed to wait to be fired upon before returning fire.

Thoughts of all kinds scrambled through my mind like a blender. I felt scared and excited and lonely at the same instant, but mostly excited. I couldn’t wait to write the first letter home and tell everyone all about it. I didn’t know a bloody thing about it yet, but I knew I had to keep a few girls worried to make sure I got a lot of mail.

After the indoctrination, we were led to a small firing range where we got a chance to make sure our weapons worked, a small item I hadn’t given a thought to.

A sunburned sergeant began shouting. “The first ten in column spread out facing the targets at the ready position. Feet spread! Rifles at the ready! Move it! Count off!”

“Nine!” I shouted as my turn came to jog into a position facing ten large black-and-white bull’s-eyes staked to the side of a fifty-foot-long by ten-foot-tall mound of dirt. The targets looked about one hundred meters away, just inside the barbed-wire perimeter surrounding Phu Bai.

“Lock and load!” I checked my magazine and flicked my rifle off safety.

“Step two of the prone position! Drop to the knees holding rifle securely! Drop to your stomach breaking your fall with the butt of the rifle!” I dropped to my stomach and took aim at the bull’s-eye straight ahead.

“Aim and fire!” shouted the sergeant, and I did. Nothing! I squeezed the trigger again. My weapon sent out a harmless klick amidst the continuous firing from the other nine rifles. My stomach churned as I looked past the targets to the unfriendly mountains beyond.

The sergeant quickly found me a rifle that worked, but the broken firing pin left me with serious doubts. “Check your boots,” my stomach said.

Now that my confidence was thoroughly shaken we were led back to a row of large dusty tents. A voice shouted to get in a formation, so we did. A truckload of Marines drove by, covering us with a solid layer of dust. The men in the truck howled with laughter at us. Some shouted friendly insults about our stateside utilities. We stuck out like big green thumbs. Every person we’d seen so far was dressed in jungle utilities. The men in the truck looked hard. Their jungle clothes were tattered and torn. The men hadn’t shaved in a long time, their skin was dark from the jungle sun, and they looked lean and mean like Marines are supposed to look. We looked like fat, happy kids, clean-shaven, with side-walled haircuts and spit-shined stateside boots.

A small snappy corporal began shouting our names in alphabetical order. Once we were all accounted for, we filed into the first in the long row of tents. Once inside, a tough-looking supply sergeant shouted at me, “What’s your size, Marine?” Like everyone else, I received a flak jacket, cartridge belt, canteens, four grenades, one pack, jungle boots, and utilities. After that we were led to different tents according to the platoons and companies we had been assigned. Unbelievably, Chan and I were together again—same company, same platoon.

Inside our tent were two rows of cots. At the end of one row, dwarfing the small cot he slept on, rested a giant red-headed man. His arms looked as big as my legs, and he must have had on size fifteen boots, which, like his utilities, were bleached beige from the sun and rain. They looked molded to his feet as if they were moccasins he hadn’t taken off for years.

I wanted to talk about this adventure with him right now. Chan must have thought the same thing. We walked to the end of the tent and sat side by side on the cot next to him. I wasn’t sure what he might think, since the rest of the tent was empty. It reminded me of standing at the end of a row of twenty unoccupied urinals and having one guy walk in and take the one right next to me.

He looked like a giant Viking. A big red mustache matched his hair. He was the most handsome red-headed man I’d ever seen. A real billboard Marine. I leaned closer to tap him on the shoulder. As he rolled over, the cot creaked under the strain. I knew one thing for sure: I wanted this monster on my side when the fighting started. He opened one large blue eye, which focused in on Chan.

“What’s this gook doing in here?”

Chan jumped to his feet. He rambled off a series of insults, some of which included the biological background of the big redhead’s parents, his speech, his looks, his smell, and his intelligence.

The big redhead opened both eyes fully as if he couldn’t believe his ears. I wanted to calm things down but couldn’t find the words. A friendly smile appeared from behind the large red mustache. He laughed deep and strong, then stuck out his hand. Chan hesitated for an instant then shook it.

“My name is Red. They call me Big Red. You look like boots.”

“We are,” I said. “Just got in today.”

“What platoon are you in?” He rolled back to a comfortable position.

“Second Platoon,” Chan said. “First Battalion, Fifth Marines.”

“That means you’re with me. What’s your MOS?”

“My military occupational specialty is 0331,” Chan said dryly.

“We’re both 0331s,” I said.

A big smile stretched across Red’s face.

“Both gunners? Oh boy, they’re sure going to be glad to see you two.”

“Why is that?” asked Chan.

“I’m a gunner too,” he said. “I got hit on the first day of Operation Hue City, and when I left I was the last gunner with machine-gun MOS in the whole company. They were grabbing mortar men and sticking M60s in their hands, and believe me, they don’t like humpin’ through the bush with grunts. Do you remember that crap they told you in machine-gun school about the life expectancy of a gunner after a firefight begins?”

We nodded in unison.

“Well, they meant it. Seven to ten seconds. Don’t get too worried, though,” Red said. “I heard we might invade. If we do, this war will be over in a couple of weeks. Just don’t panic out there. Go at it gung-ho. If you’re too careful you’ll just make a better target.”

With those last encouraging remarks, Red rolled over and went back to sleep. I thought he meant well, but
he had planted a seed of doubt in me that was quickly growing into a large tree. I tapped him on the shoulder. I felt like one of the little people waking up Gulliver. “You weren’t kidding just a little were you?” I asked quietly. “I mean, we can’t be the only three gunners in all of Alpha Company.”

“We are unless they got some more boots while I was in the hospital.” He opened his eyes again. “Look, you guys, don’t worry about it, ‘cause it won’t help. Find a salt when you get to the unit and stick with him like glue. If you don’t get killed the first couple of months you’ll be okay.”

“What should we do to get ready? I mean is there anything we should know?” I asked.

“You probably oughta take your dog tags off the chain. They make noise at night; it’ll get you killed. If your head gets blown off they probably won’t find the tags and you won’t be identified. String ’em into your boot laces. The boots usually hold together, and they won’t make noise. And color ’em up with something so they won’t shine with the sun- or moonlight. If you got anything you want to keep dry, put it in plastic and stick it between your helmet and helmet liner.” He pointed at our grenades lying on my cot. “Bend the pins on those frags right now. When you hump through the bush, sticks get caught in the ring and pull out the pin and you get blown away.”

Red’s advice made me realize for the first time all of the assorted ways I could get myself killed in this place. His information scared me, but I knew it was important, and I was thankful for it.

“Don’t ever take your boots off unless you’re in some area like Phu Bai. Put your crap-paper in plastic if you want any hope of keeping it dry—writing paper, too. If you don’t put Halazone tablets in each canteen of water you’ll get dysentery with the first drink. When it’s a hundred and twenty degrees you’ll drink a lot of water. Take
your malaria pills every day or you’ll get malaria and it’ll stay with you even when you go home. The salt tabs, too. Forget your salt tab and you’ll pass out from heat exhaustion. And take your helmet off when you get the chance. I saw one boot get his brain fried ‘cause he left that pot on all day when it was about a hundred and twenty degrees. Ask whoever is writing you to send some care packages with Kool-Aid and stuff that won’t spoil in the heat.”

“Does the M16 rifle malfunction consistently under jungle conditions as projected?” Chan asked with his usual overdose of vocabulary.

Red looked at me quizzically. “Does he always talk like that?”

I nodded the affirmative.

Red chuckled, then answered, “No, not if you keep it clean. Clean it every single day or it’ll jam. The M60 too. Use lots of oil. During the monsoon season your weapon will start to rust every few hours. If you light a cigarette up at night, you can kiss your butt goodbye. If the gooks don’t kill you another Marine probably will. More important for you two than anything else is this: When you hear ‘Guns up!’ you got to get that gun to a firing position and open up.”

With the end of that list Red rolled back over to try sleeping again. Then he rolled back as if he had remembered one last thing. “I almost forgot. Don’t pull off the leeches. Burn ’em off with a match, or the head of the leech will stay in your skin. Tie the strings real tight at the bottom of your trousers and you can keep some of them out.”

After that Red went to sleep. I had a thousand more questions, but I didn’t dare wake him again. I couldn’t understand how he managed to sleep. The tent was full of flies, the heat was sweltering, and every time a truck went by, heavy clouds of dust poured into the tent like the receiving bag of a vacuum cleaner.

Chan leaned back on his cot, using his pack for a pillow. He pulled his writing paper out of his shirt pocket.

“Tell Valerie hi for me,” I said.

“I’m writing my parents.” I wasn’t surprised. Chan seemed very close to his parents.

“How’s it been going with you and Valerie?” I asked.

“She loves me, and I love her.” He paused, then shook his head dejectedly. “But her mother’s another story. Mrs. Gallina is doing everything she can to stop our relationship.”

“Because you’re Chinese?”

“That’s part of it. But the main reason is because I’m not Italian and I’m not Catholic.”

“But you know the Bible backwards.”

“That doesn’t matter to Valerie’s mother. She doesn’t know the Old Testament from the New. She worships a religious system and doesn’t really know the Lord at all.” Chan didn’t sound angry. He spoke as if he pitied her, as if he was honestly worried about her. Chan often said we were best friends because we were alike in many ways. Maybe, but I would have told this meddling Gallina broad to shove it up her diddy-bag. I leaned back on my cot and stared at the roof until it was too dark to see.

A heavy rain pelted the tent all night and didn’t stop until morning. I knew because I was too excited to sleep. The day started like all the other days in the Corps, with a formation. The mud was drying fast. It was 6
A.M.
, and I was already grimy with sweat. We marched to the chow hall, where I received my first clue to what the country of Vietnam was all about: dysentery.

My stomach felt like it was getting an oil change. I wanted to puke, but I was too busy putting it out the other end. Chan thought it was hilariously funny until he came down with the same thing. We spent the rest of the day and the majority of the next as close to a row of outhouses as possible.

On the third day the entire group of boots was herded into a large tent with sandbag walls. The atmosphere was serious. Fifty to seventy-five of us crowded in, and no one spoke. I felt nervous. Ten rows of benches made the tent look like a chapel. A large blackboard surrounded by two large maps stood at the front. Someone yelled, “Attention!” We jumped to our feet. I felt like I was in a movie, getting orders to bomb Germany.

A small man with prematurely gray hair and dark sunglasses strode into the tent. He hustled to a platform in front of the maps. He looked more like a stockbroker than a major in the Marine Corps. “At ease.” He picked up a pointer stick and began to talk.

“You are members of the Fifth Marines. The Fifth is now completing Operation Hue City. Hue has always been treated as an open city in recognition of its place as the ancient imperial capital and cultural seat of Vietnam. This is the only reason we have not bombed the NVA into dust. Hue has never been heavily fortified like Da Nang. The First ARVN Division has its headquarters in a corner of the Citadel. There is also the Black Panther Company, an elite unit of the Vietnamese Marines. That is the substance of the Vietnamese Army strength within the city. The Fifth Marines have been given the job of retaking Hue, which was occupied by the NVA on 31 January. By February 9 the enemy death count had reached 1,053. It is estimated that two enemy battalions had been destroyed by that point. All we have left can be considered mopping up. That does not mean people won’t be shooting at you. If an enemy soldier shouts ‘Chieu Hoi!’ he is surrendering and is not to be fired upon. The Chieu Hoi program must be respected. We have dropped hundreds of thousands of leaflets telling the NVA soldier that he can drop his weapon and shout ‘Chieu Hoi’ and that he will be treated well. These prisoners are changing sides. They will fight for the South Vietnamese Government. Now, I know you all have a lot of questions, but this is all you
have to know: You are United States Marines, the finest fighting men in the history of the world. We have never lost a major battle. No other fighting unit on earth can make such a claim. Now, attention!”

The tent full of white sidewall haircuts snapped to attention. “Repeat after me: Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death”—the chorus of youthful voices stuttered out the words like they had never heard them before—”I shall fear no evil.” We repeated the second part more clearly: “For I am the meanest mother in the valley!” I loved it! I didn’t feel quite right about using the Lord’s word in vain, but I felt psyched enough to go all the way to Russia and stop this crap where it started.