The explosion sent twenty-four men sprawling. The only
sound that followed was men cursing and scrambling for better cover.
There were no screams of pain.
As he hugged the ground, Sergeant Mike Floyd knew there
were better ways to spend Thanksgiving. His first choice being in the
back seat of his car with Mary Beth Riser.
He was tired of death; tired of trying to kill unknown
men who were doing their best to kill him. He wanted life and peace and
Mary Beth.
Today's plan had called for his recon platoon to leave
the shelter of a jungle-like wood line and cross a large expanse of dry
rice paddies to a village. The word was it might be a staging area for
the Viet Cong or the North Vietnamese Army, maybe both. If everything
went right, the infantry company and the troop of armored personnel
carriers left back in the wood line would then move out and join them.
For the officer in charge of the operation, the plan had
the advantage of protecting the men in his own company while risking a
handful of someone else's troops. Vietnam was a numbers war. Should
recon get shot up, the casualties wouldn't be figured against his unit's
body count.
It was a scheme Mike and the other men of recon knew all
too well. They were the eyes and ears of the battalion, experts at
operating alone on intelligence gathering operations. Ambushes,
snatches, tracking, manning listening posts at night and observation
posts during the day were all considered good missions.
No one thought today's assignment, serving as scouts for
a regular infantry company, was a good mission. They were now under the
direct control of another unit's commanding officer. Whenever that
happened, they became expendable.
Halfway
to the village, things started going wrong. A sudden, high-pitched
shriek ended in a sickening explosion and a geyser of dirt, smoke, and
death. Unable to tell where the fire was coming from, they had to dive
for the only available cover. After that, it was a matter of praying
they'd put rice paddy dikes between them and a body bag.
The platoon began checking in. "What the hell was
that? Where's the sonuvabitch? Is everybody all right?"
"Hardcore" Harding, the unit's platoon
sergeant, yelled over from a nearby rice paddy. "That thing's gotta
be a goddamn recoilless rifle, Lieutenant."
"Roger that, shit. You got any idea where the hell
it's firing from?" Lieutenant Lester never stopped scanning
the surrounding terrain.
"Can't be sure, sir. But they've probably got it
set up on that hill over there on our right flank."
Mike forced himself to lift his head and look for the
hill. There was a second explosion followed by an eruption of small arms
fire from the village. But he'd seen a flash.
"I think Hardcore's right, Lieutenant. I spotted
something looked like a small back-blast. Probably about two-thirds the
way up the hill, just left of that dead tree."
Dale Lester studied the hill, and then looked around.
His platoon, a group he and Hardcore had molded into a first class recon
unit, was pinned down in the open. Meanwhile, Delta Company and the
supporting armored personnel carriers were back in the safety of the
wood line and didn't seem anxious to risk exposing themselves by
providing fire support. "Looks like it's command decision time,
Bear." Mike, whose size had earned him the nickname, wiped sweat
and dirt off his face and nodded.
"If we stay put and call for help that recoilless
rifle will pick us off," said Lester. "Heading towards that
automatic weapons fire is out of the question. Going back's not much
better. So that leaves...."
His words were cut off by another incoming round. Mike
had an idea, but wished he hadn't. "Lieutenant, my squad's closest
to the hill. What if the platoon lays down covering fire long enough for
us to shag ass over there? If it's just the weapons crew, odds are
they'll 'di di' when they see us coming." What he didn't need to
say, what both he and the Lieutenant knew, was that if the crew stayed,
and the position was defended, the squad could be in a world of hurt.
Lieutenant Lester glanced at Mike, then surveyed the
situation. "Okay. Go get your squad moving. We'll do our part
here." He looked away and began yelling orders to Hardcore.
Mike rose into a crouch and started running in a zigzag
pattern toward first squad, his unit. The sound of another incoming
round sent him diving back for cover. It exploded along the base of the
dike being used by second squad, the squad of Sergeant Andy Andrews.
Redheaded, freckle-faced Anderson Andrews, Mike's friend
and fellow squad leader, son of Mr. and Mrs. Carl P. Andrews, brother of
Paul and Joyce, Kim Irving Andrew's husband, and father of their three
month old daughter Kacey, was killed instantly when members of the North
Vietnamese Army manning a recoilless rifle on Hill 87 scored a direct
hit on his position.
Before Mike could get back to his feet
"Hassle" Castle was rushing to Andy's motionless form. The
expert grenadier and Andy had joined the unit the same day. They were
very tight.
Everyone knew to avoid the junctions of rice paddy
dikes. They were prime spots for booby traps. Hassle knew better. But
maybe all he could focus on was his friend's body.
There was a small bang and a can filled with tiny steel
pellets shot into the air, then exploded at chest height. It was hard to
believe how many holes that "Bouncing Betty" drilled into
Hassle's dark, wiry, young body.
The recoilless rifle fired one more round while Mike's
squad was racing to the base of the hill. After catching their breath,
they formed a skirmish line and began moving up the steep hillside
toward the unseen gun position. The heavy brush and small, low
trees made it impossible to see more that a few feet ahead. It was a
very hairy climb.
That may be why they got careless. The well camouflaged
firing site was undefended and deserted. For the squad, the danger
seemed over. They relaxed and instinctively moved closer to talk and
check out the scene.
Mike was on the radio, reporting in to Lieutenant Lester
when he noticed what the men were doing. With an impatient gesture, he
motioned for them to move away. "Don't cluster fuck. Spread out and
watch for. . ." He never finished his last command. There was an
explosion. Tony Doughty a big, pug-nosed, good-natured guy from
Tennessee-so new to the unit he still didn't have a nickname had stepped
on a booby-trap. His large body was now dancing in mid-air as a sheet of
flame, laced with white streaks, raced toward Mike. It was the last
thing he'd see clearly for months.
When the force of the explosion slammed into him, Mike
struggled to stay on his feet. He'd heard other explosions and didn't
want to risk falling onto another booby-trap. Then his knees gave out
and he crumpled to the ground.
After spitting out a mouthful of something, he made a
quick, unsuccessful search for his rifle. Reaching for his canteen, he
discovered his pistol still in its holster. Knowing he had the .38
Special made him feel better. It was common knowledge the VC
seldom took prisoners and when they did, the captives were tortured to
death.
He remembered to check his body for wounds. There was
something warm and wet around his groin. The growing sense of panic
passed when he discovered it was only urine, not blood.
The blast had caught him from the waist up. There were
tiny pieces of metal and gravel in his arms, chest, and face. Raw powder
burns covered his face and he couldn't see. But even with all those
injuries, Mike knew he'd been lucky. He was alive.
The cries of wounded soldiers replaced the sound of
exploding booby traps. In front of him, someone was moaning,
"Crotch, crotch, crotch." Grabbing his canteen, Mike rinsed
out his mouth and then started crawling toward the moans.
The
casualties soon turned into statistics. Tony was dead. Three more,
including Mike, would need a Medivac. The immediate danger of an ambush
was over. Now the wounded needed to be moved to a flat, open spot so the
helicopters could quickly get in and out.
Somebody linked Mike up with "Cowboy"
Thompson. The low-key, reliable fire team leader had gotten his right
leg messed up. Cowboy could see, but couldn't walk. Mike could walk, but
not see. The lame soldier and the blind soldier linked arms and prepared
to help one another down the hill.
"Helluva way to spend Thanksgiving ain't it,
Bear?"
Mike's mind flashed on an image of Mary Beth Riser
stretched out nude and luscious on the back seat of his old Chevy. He'd
enjoyed that sight, and Mary Beth's body, almost every day during his
last leave home. In his pocket was the letter she'd just sent-the one
with the photo of her smiling and leaning against the side of his car.
He'd just lost two friends and the new guy under his
command. What's more he was blind. But for the moment, the sudden
realization that he was a survivor overwhelmed all feelings of guilt or
remorse.
"Damn straight, Cowboy. But it could be worse. We
may be beat-up, but we're alive and going home in time for Christmas.
Hell, let's celebrate." As the two men began walking away from
their war, a ragged version of Jingle Bells floated out over the low
scrub brush and body bags.
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