The Path

Combat Assault

In early December, we had orders for a combat assault. Firebase Jamie's artillery prepped the LZ (landing zone) with HE (high explosives). CS (tear gas) was not used.

A Huey can get you to ground where there's no roads or train tracks. The next morning, five landed thirty feet apart on Jamie's dirt strip. They flew back and forth to the LZ in formation, lifting thirty G.I.s at a time, to a field not too distant.

We scrambled out and made a bee line for the wood line. From there, we formed into platoons and worked our way into the jungle, breaking bush all morning. In the afternoon, we came upon a meandering path. As each platoon crossed, two guards posted right and two left. Once the platoon was across, the guards scurried to catch up.

Our platoon was the last to cross. The bush was thick, limiting our vision. Lt. Martinez picked Sam and me to guard the right.

Beware, friendlies are patrolling in front of you.

We peeled off twenty feet to the right, behind bushes, Sam two feet ahead.

I remember it like yesterday. Sam opened up with swift rounds from his M16, scarin' the livin’ shit outta me!

My God, are we shooting friendlies?

He yelled back,

No, no, this is enemy!

Are you sure?

He screamed,

Take my spot! My gun jammed!

I came up, shot off a tentative three-round burst.

Are you sure?

Faster!

I couldn't see. Sam grabbed my weapon,

Let go. Unjam my gun!

Sam had the better view. He had seen the threatening shape and had acquired the target, an NVA (North Vietnamese) officer moving toward us on the path about thirty feet away. Evidently, the guy didn't get Capt. Jackson's memo on the dangers of trails. Sam held on him, pumping through magazines like there was no tomorrow. Luckily, he didn't see us. If there were any more behind him, they had already dropped.

To kill, you have to move fast.

The M60 machine gunner came running up, plopped to the ground, mounted his gun on a tripod, mouthing the same shit about friendlies. I had Sam's gun ready to go, but he took over the M60 instead, mowing the jungle like grass with 100-shot belts.

Bob, who had been guarding the left flank came over and opened up, too. When the firing stopped, Killer, a highly respected old-timer, rose from the dirt and walked ahead with a couple guys from his squad. All they found was a bloody pile of raw hamburger they could have washed away with a garden hose. No jungle alive anywhere around it.

The poor guy was unavailable for comment. Sam said nothing. My guts went cold.   

Five minutes and it might have been us.

I remembered what they told us in basic,   

Never point a gun at anyone unless you mean to shoot him. And if you do shoot him, you better make sure he's dead. 'Cause if he ain't dead, he's gonna shoot you.

Killer collected maps, documents, an AK-47 and an aluminum belt buckle. His men threw dirt on the site to keep flies away. He gave me the buckle, a rite of passage that I still have.

This was no time to relax and count our blessings. Capt. Jackson radioed that our platoon would stay here and camp overnight on the bloody path. The rest of the company would push ahead and set up in the jungle.   

What if they return?

We set up a perimeter with flares and Claymores, dug bunkers for cover and clocked our weapons. Killer's squad was on our right, fifteen feet from the remains, an unnatural conjunction of the living and the dead. Any shreds of military romance or chivalry in me were banished forever.

The Hell With It

When it finally happens and it's over,
As you stand there and think—
Something so mutilated can't be human
So it was dead enough without this
But even here there is beauty
A small flowered patch of ground, a bird's call
And the grace of a butterfly
Frustration and disappointment
Become a laughable thing
But always the conflicting emotions to smile
Or say the hell with it and cry

—SP4 Bob Jackson (1970)

We slept alfresco, as usual; each of us would pull an hour of guard duty. In the middle of the moonless night, POP, a flare tripped. All was quiet until the flare had almost burned out. Then the Claymore blew, too late to do any damage. The guard either had trouble finding the clacker or hit it when the flare woke him up.

Now we had a hole in our perimeter—no trip flare and no Claymore; a blind spot and too dark to chance a reset. The enemy could waltz right in! For the rest of the night I could taste the stress.

Are they coming back for the body or for us? Are we bait on a hook?

Thank God, the rest of the night passed quietly. In the morning, after sending out a patrol, we rejoined the rest of our company at their camp nearby.

Life was not so shiny anymore. I thought things would be calmer than this—I'll never survive.

I needed to shut that out from my mind—otherwise I would be unable to fight. Yet it was all I could think of. Fear of death is a normal thing, but after those bits and pieces scattered all over the place, uncontrollable cough and choking spells plagued me each night for the next week. Doc Walsh gave me the entire bottle of cough medicine to stifle it.

And then for some reason, I got used to it. I felt war and I was learning to be a soldier, hard and fast.