Guns Up! (6 page)

Timing was crucial for our ambush. If we set up too early, we might be seen, and if we waited too long, we might choose a bad spot or walk into an ambush. I strained to see any movement up ahead but couldn’t.

Jackson motioned to move out. Every step sounded too loud. The safety of the bridge felt a million miles away. I kept looking behind me, but the only thing following was my own fear. Jackson took the path that led away from the river.

Our pace slowed to one quiet step at a time. A branch fell from a tree on our right and splashed into the river. We all dropped to one knee. I could see no sane reason for going one foot farther from the bridge. Jackson stood up. He motioned us to move out again. I wanted to tell him that if all this was just to scare the boot, not another step was needed. My knees were jelly.

I wanted somebody to know what I was going through. Right now my friends are cruising around Steak ’n Shake trying to pick up women. This is crazy. No one will ever believe this. What do I do if we get hit? I have to quit cluttering up my mind, I thought.

The deepening night steadily took any vision I had had at the start. I kept Striker in sight, but Jackson was part of the blackness ahead. I wanted to stop. We kept going. A woodsy noise behind me started my heart pounding. I walked backward for twenty meters. The paranoia of being stalked from behind sent goose bumps up my spine. I turned back around. Now Striker was gone. The urge to call his name got as far as my throat before I managed to control it. I started walking faster.

A quarter moon slipped out from behind a large dark cloud. The jungle blackness turned misty blue. It was like trying to see through a heavy fog, but it wasn’t a fog. It was just another eerie Vietnam night, dense with humidity. Now I could see Striker and Jackson.

Instead of feeling better, the dim blue light made me jittery. Suddenly I felt conspicuous. Sweat dripped into my eyes and stung them with salt. The path looked like it might lead all the way to the dreaded mountains.

We stopped at the edge of a clearing about twenty-five meters square. The path led through its center and into thick jungle on the other side that appeared as a solid black wall. In the center of the clearing another path crisscrossed ours. Most of the paths led to rice paddies that the villagers worked each day, but some went through or around the paddy fields and all the way to the mountains.

The new path led in a direction away from the bridge, southwest, toward the A Shau Mountains. The men always joked about that area being a gook R&R center. It didn’t seem very funny right now. Jackson knelt down on one knee. He motioned for us to do the same.

“This is it,” he whispered.

“How about over there, behind those bushes?” Striker pointed to some knee-high shrubs ten feet from where the two paths crossed. It looked like a logical place but was well into the clearing and rather naked.

“I’ll go first and check it out,” Jackson whispered.

“Make sure we’re hidden from both paths,” added Striker.

Jackson crouched as he scampered into the clearing. His feet rushing through the foot-high saw grass made too much noise. He disappeared behind the bushes for a moment then raised one hand and motioned for us to follow.

Striker went first. He made too much noise too. Once Striker had ducked out of sight, I followed. My first few
steps were quiet but slow. Then I ran for the cover of the bushes, making more noise than Jackson or Striker.

We set-in three feet away from each other. Our cover was perfect for watching the paths without being seen. I tried to remember all the things I’d been taught, but all I could focus my mind on was the merciless attack of gigantic mosquitoes. Jackson gave Striker a bottle of insect repellant. Striker put some on his face, neck, and hands, then leaned toward me.

“Put some on, but not too heavy. The gooks can smell it if the wind is right.”

Jackson leaned over Striker and handed me a watch with the face down.

“You got first watch. Don’t let the luminous hands show or we’re all dead.” Jackson smiled. His smile was more luminous than any watch. “Wake Striker at 2400 hours.”

As soon as they closed their eyes I felt like I was the only target in Vietnam. Every bush and every tree began looking like an enemy soldier. I tried to calm down by thinking of how miserable I felt. It was no use. I was too excited to be miserable.

The quarter moon slid in and out of occasional clouds, seesawing visibility from ten feet to three hundred. Between each lapse in visibility trees and bushes seemed to move. All the John Wayne war movies I’d ever seen began to haunt me. The Japs always disguised themselves as bushes. I started to wake Striker up but didn’t. The Vietnamese had probably never even seen a John Wayne movie.

Jackson and Striker had pulled their shirts up and retracted their heads like turtles in an effort to evade the constant whining of mosquitoes. I checked the watch. Only twenty-five minutes gone. It felt like twenty-five days, but so far so good. Not a single bush had snuck up on me yet. Maybe the night would go by without incident.

One more scan of the clearing dispelled that hope immediately. The shadowy figure of a man, crouching as he cautiously moved in, step by step, emerged from the blackness of the jungle. My heart thumped so strongly I could feel my chest moving.

I clicked my rifle off safety and felt for my spare magazines.

Striker slapped at a mosquito. I quickly put my hand over his mouth. He froze stiff, his eyes opened wide.

“Gooks,” I whispered so low I wasn’t sure he heard me. He rolled quietly toward Jackson and gave him a nudge on the shoulder. They looked at me. I pointed at the shadow. They both came up on their left elbows and peaked over the brush that hid us.

Three shadows were now visible leaving the thick jungle and proceeding across the clearing. They weren’t on either of the trails. They were coming straight at us. We took aim. Fifteen meters away they veered slightly away from us. Now a large group of figures appeared at the edge of the clearing. We held our fire.

My eyebrows were back to my hairline. I could see at least forty shadows moving into the clearing. Jackson held out his hand and motioned to get down. The faint whisper of an aircraft high above stole my mind for an instant, and for an instant I prayed to be on that plane, or any plane.

I melted myself into the ground, and I prayed silently, Yea though I walk through the … Oh, God forgive me, I can’t remember the words!

The rustle of feet swishing through damp saw grass pounded into my ears. I could hear the booming of heavy artillery off in the distance, probably out of Phu Bai. Thirty seconds later two rounds exploded, judging by the sound, about two thousand meters away. The feet started moving faster.

I wanted Red to be here. Flashbacks of boot camp blended with fear. One slap of a mosquito and my life
was over. One sneeze. One ill-timed twitch. I remember when Private Allen slapped that sand flea in front of me. The DI kicked him in the shins and knocked him down. Then he made the whole platoon lie down and he screamed at the top of his lungs, “Private, you have just killed your entire platoon!”

My arm was aching like crazy, but I didn’t dare move even my eyes to see why. I could hear the enemy huffing and grunting as they filed by. I could feel each second individually. I felt like I’d spent days lying here with my face in the mud.

Finally silence. No more feet shuffling by. I wanted to look up. Suddenly a gripping terror seized control of my mind. The gooks were standing over us. They’d shoot me in the head when I looked up. Two minutes passed.

“All clear.” To me Jackson’s whisper was the Mormon Tabernacle Choir singing, “Hal-le-lu-jah.” Somewhere bells were ringing, and the sun would come up tomorrow.

I looked up and straight into Striker’s eyes. He had a tourniquet grip on my arm.

“My trousers are wet,” he said as he released me. “And it ain’t rainin’.”

My back hurt, my legs were numb, and the blood still wasn’t back in my arm. My neck cracked; it felt better. Then it hit me. It grabbed my funny bone and squeezed it just like Striker had been squeezing my arm for the last eternity.

“Your trousers are wet?” I looked into Striker’s muddy face. He nodded yes. It started with a snicker then grew to a contained laugh then out of control. I laughed so hard I snorted. Tears of sheer delight gushed uncontrollably down my face. Jackson leaned over Striker and shook my shoulder.

“Don’t …” The sentence turned into a chuckle. Then Striker began laughing. I covered my mouth with my arm to hide the noise, but it only made me laugh harder. Jackson’s chuckle grew louder. Smilin’ Jackson could
laugh louder and harder than anyone I’d ever met. I felt an urgency to quiet him down before he got going, but it was no use. I was out of control. Jackson rolled onto his back, his knees pulled in to his stomach as if he were in great pain, and laughed. Great, big, fat, from-the-pit-of-his-stomach belly laughs.

Jackson sat up in a panic.

“Oh God! Grenade!”

In the span of two seconds we crawled, hopped, and ran ten meters away. We were hugging the ground again when the grenade went off, spitting dirt all over us. Striker and I sat up immediately after the explosion with rifles at the ready. Jackson chuckled. We stared at Jackson in disbelief. Jackson’s chuckle turned into a cackle. Striker shook Jackson by his shoulder, which only made him laugh harder and louder.

“If you don’t stop, I’m going to butt-stroke you,” Striker growled.

“Okay, okay,” Jackson replied, the words squeezing between the snickers. “It was my grenade. I pulled the pin when the gooks were walking by.”

“We better get out of here!” I said, trying to keep my panic to a whisper.

“Keep cool,” Jackson said with a pat on my shoulder. “They ain’t turnin’ that big column around. They’ll figure somebody tripped a booby trap.”

“Just the same,” Striker whispered with a quick look around, “I don’t wanna stay here!”

Jackson thought for a moment and pointed back toward the bridge. “Okay, let’s move back closer.”

It was a nervous two-hundred-meter retreat, but I felt better after the move.

By the time the sun came up I was ready to write a letter home. My friends would never believe this one, but I wanted to tell them anyway. I especially wanted to tell Chan.

Two big deuce-and-a-half trucks sat at the north end
of the blown-up bridge. Corporal Swift Eagle stood beside one of the trucks, looking in our direction.

“Move it! Hurry up! We’re movin’ out!”

Chan leaned out the side of the lead truck and waved. I trotted up and started to get on board.

“Where do you think you’re going?” said Swift Eagle.

I looked at Chan.

“Where are
you
going?” I asked.

“S-2 school. The Marine Corps has expressed their desire that I acclimate myself to the Vietnamese language. Don’t worry, I’ll return in two or three weeks. You take care of yourself, buddy.”

“You too, Chan,” I said, rather dumbfounded.

“Move it! Move it! Get your gear together. We’re saddling up!” the big Indian was shouting at me.

Chan’s truck pulled away. We waved one last time. I felt alone. I wasn’t all that hungry, but my stomach sure felt empty. I kept watching until the truck rounded a bend and was out of sight.

“Move it! Move it!” I turned around.

“Hey, Chief!”

“Yeah,” he said as he tied his jungle trousers securely around his boot tops. “You better do this too, boot. It won’t keep all the leeches out, but it stops some of ’em.”

“Where’s Chan going to school?”

“Phu Bai first, then down to Da Nang at China Beach.” He looked up. “It’s nice—real nice! About as good as R&R.”

“That sucker,” I mumbled. I knew it was envy and that I should be happy for him, but I wasn’t. First time we hit the bush and he gets R&R.

“Hey, cheer up!” Swift Eagle said. “At least he won’t get killed at China Beach.”

“Right, Chief.” I decided to be happy for him even if it made me sick.

“Saddle up!” I ran to the north-end gun bunker to grab my pack, helmet, canteens, and machine-gun ammo.
The old gunny was leaning against the bunker with his pack and helmet on. My gear lay beside him.

“God! What a night, Gunny.”

“Hurry up and get your gear on, son.”

“We must have had one hundred gooks walk right by us! Right by our noses!” He acted as if he didn’t hear me.

“How old are you, John?” He handed me my flak jacket and spit out a shot of tobacco.

“Eighteen, Gunny. Why?”

“Just curious. I got a boy with a baby face like yours. He’s eighteen too. He’s in his senior year. Didn’t you finish high school?”

“Yeah. I graduated last June. I started school when I was five.”

“When did you turn eighteen?” He handed me my cartridge belt and canteens. I wondered what he had on his mind. This was the first time he’d ever talked to me.

“October 12th.”

“Did your parents sign for you to get in the Corps?”

“Yeah. It took some fast talking, too.”

He shot a stream of tobacco juice at a large anthill beside the bunker then stepped up close to me, put his right hand on my shoulder, and stared me right in the eye. Deep wrinkles stretched across his tan forehead and all around his dark blue eyes. He suddenly looked very old and solemn.

“You can’t be eighteen anymore, John. You have to think older if you want to come out of this hole alive. Do you know what I’m trying to tell you?”

“I think so, Gunny.”

He bent over, picked up my helmet, and put it on me.

“There ain’t many Marines better than Big Red. You do what he says when he says it. Swift Eagle, too. That Indian is all Marine. Watch him and learn.”

“Is this as tough as World War II, Gunny? They told me you were on Iwo Jima.”

“I was at Chosin Reservoir, too. This war is the worst
yet. We ain’t tryin’ to win, and we ain’t tryin’ to lose. We could stop it in a month if we invaded the North.” He took a couple of quick steps as if he were too angry to stand still. “Every war stinks, but I ain’t seen this kind of stink before. You stick close to Red, you’ll be okay.” He slapped me on the back.