Thirty Days Has September Read online

  “What do you mean?” Fessman asked back.

  “Please tell me that those guys aren’t a bunch of crackers from the South.” I’d heard the talking through the bushes the night before. The accents had all been Southern. If the blacks had all pulled together into one platoon and the white southerner Marines were in another platoon, then the war going on inside the Company might be explained.

  “What part of the country?” I said.

  “Oklahoma, Texas, places like that, mostly,” Fessman answered hesitantly.

  Some things were becoming clear to me, not that knowing what was actually going on would do much to forestall my death. Two sets of officers before me had totally failed, and they must have had a pretty good idea before they bought it, or so I thought until I saw the Gunny coming back.

  The light was just enough of a glimmer for me to be able to spot him easing from the nearby jungle growth. Five other Marines, all in different states of uniform repair or disrepair, followed him. Some wore utility blouses, some not. Some helmets, some not. I guessed the first man behind the Gunny to be Jurgens. Big and hard-boned looking, he lunged forward more than he walked. The other three, all Caucasians, were nondescript. And then there was Sugar Daddy, who hung back until everyone else gathered before my hooch. I watched them approach, having no idea how the planning for the assault would go. I was mentally prepared with as much training material as the Corps had provided me back in Quantico. The five paragraph order was standard fare for planning an assault. SMEAC was the memory aid acronym: situation, mission, execution, administration/logistics, and command/communications. It was simple stuff but every area had to be covered before more complex acronyms could be brought into play. My right hand remained inside my pocket clutching the letter to my wife, the most important part of my day. My link to home. I wondered if the same Hollywood Tommy gun guy would be there at the resupply chopper to accept it from me. I also wondered, if the rear area was run anything like what I’d discovered in the field, whether my letters would ever reach the continental United States at all.

  The other Marines, who I presumed to be sergeants, squatted in the mud facing the Gunny, sideways to me. I got the message. I also wondered where the Company paperwork was stored and moved. Even in the field a clerk is assigned to keep the records, write letters regarding casualties and keep track of supplies and personnel. Where was that clerk and where were the records? I took out a small square of plastic and wrote the number “1” on it, and looked up at the men gathered before me.

  “We’re not attacking,” the Gunny stated, shaking his head. The other Marines all nodded their heads. “If we were attacking, we’d just do it without all the mumbo jumbo you learned in Quantico.”

  I looked the Gunny straight in the eyes. It was the first time I sensed true resentment in anything he’d said to me. I could not afford to lose the Gunny. He was really all I had. I put my plastic sheet and grease pencil back in my pack as I thought furiously about the situation. We were ordered by Battalion to attack Hill 110. We were going to disobey a direct order in combat, if they had their way, an order I was responsible for obeying. The penalty for such disobedience was clear, and it included punishment up to my execution. I waited. It took about half a minute for the Gunny to go on.

  “If we take that hill or even try it, then we’re going to get the same medicine the last outfit got and they lost about a quarter of their men.” The Gunny stopped to let that message sink in before continuing. “Nobody back there gives a damn about that hill or what might be on it. They’re just moving us around. So we sit here, call in some fire and probably take some, but go nowhere. You call Battalion and let them know we took the hill by late in the day. Then we wait.”

  “For what?” I asked, giving no indication about whether I approved of the treasonous plan or not.

  “Until they order us to move out and on to another position.”

  “What happens when we don’t have any casualties or need resupply on top of the hill, or even gunship support?” I asked, wondering how many times this same scene had played out with this group of Marines.

  “They won’t care,” the Gunny replied. “We’ll tell them we took the hill unopposed.”

  “And if the other companies on our flanks run into the NVA occupying that hill?” I inquired, rummaging behind me for my canteen holder.

  “That’s their problem, Junior,” Jurgens answered, his tone acidic.

  I noted that none of the Marines attending the meeting appeared to be armed. Although it was almost dawn and we were seldom hit during daylight hours, I still thought it unusual that anyone in a combat situation would go anywhere at all, including inside our own perimeter, without a weapon.

  Making like I was going to tear another packet of instant coffee open with both hands, I let my right drop to my side and remove my Colt from it’s holster.

  I brought the automatic up and pointed it slightly downward at the space right in front of and between the men. The men froze in their positions, not appearing to blink or breathe.

  I moved the safety lever on the back left side of the weapon down. The click of it disengaging sounded like a gunshot in the silence. I looked around at every member of the group, each of whom stared back at me without expression or movement.

  “You guys shouldn’t move about in the field without being armed,” I said, not moving the Colt from where I held it. “Always keep one in the chamber with the hammer back and the safety on,” I went on.

  Nguyen came silently out of the jungle behind the group. He blended in so well with the foliage I was reminded of an American Indian in the old west. He held an M16 before him, slightly angled down, but its intent was plain. I wasn’t alone in whatever might happen. My heart and intense loyalty went out to him across the short distance.

  “Okay,” I said. “We’ll play this one your way. You’re dismissed.”

  The Gunny stayed while the rest slowly backed off and then were gone. “You can’t beat them all, sir,” the Gunny said.

  I re-engaged the safety on the .45 and returned it to my holster. “Coffee?” I asked, hoping he’d say no because my hands were shaking too hard to make any. I pushed them down into my thighs so he wouldn’t notice. If I smiled any more I’d have smiled on the inside. The Gunny called me ‘sir’ for only the second time since I’d met him. It was a tiny little thing but it was all I had to hold on to.

  thirteen

  The Fourth Day : Second Part

  I sat in my hooch, waiting for the sound of choppers distant in the air. I thought about all of what had gone before, since I’d arrived. It felt terrible to know I would have to sit and wait for orders to move from Hill 110, which we would not be taking, in direct violation of orders. My very first orders in combat. My only decision was to go along. To stay alive. The platoon commanders did not gather in front of me like they had to give me the message. The Gunny could have done that quite easily. No, they’d met in the mud right in front of me to send me a different message. Don’t screw with them or get dead. Go along to get along and even then get dead. And then there was the enemy. I had yet to review our own dead or even the wounded. I felt that the Gunny was waiting for my maturation, my coming of age, my ability to handle even more bad news. I had to admit he was right. I wasn’t ready for more bad news. I was scrunched backed into my poncho cover, like it was my blanket at my parents’ place at home. And I could no more stay there than I had been able to in that home. I knew I was supposed to review the carnage I’d called in on the enemy. I knew there was a vital, hard and tough enemy too. How could the Company not be united to fight that enemy? I didn’t know. I wasn’t going out to count the dead or try to put body parts together. I had no interest whatsoever.

  I’d seen the tracers from the enemy and fired out at them in the night before dawn. I’d seen them the night before. They were so impressive, possibly their effect increased by the density of the feti
d hot air. Tracers were death. And tracers might be life. I would ask at resupply, not that I was being given an opportunity yet to actually order supplies. My primary mission was to mail my letter. My first objective to accomplish my mission was tracers and my second was to order size eight jungle boots. It made no sense but the plan seemed sensible to me.

  “Fessman, up,” I commanded.

  Fessman almost literally jumped to the opening of my hooch. “Sir,” he said. He made me feel like a Marine officer and I was thankful, although I showed nothing.

  “Who orders the ordinance for the company at resupply every morning?” I asked him.

  “The Gunny,” Fessman said, right back.

  “Is it verbal or does he use a requisition form?” I continued.

  “Requisition form,” Fessman answered.

  “Get me one,” I ordered, not knowing if he would be able to accomplish that part of the objective to accomplish a mission that had no relationship to tracers at all.

  “I think Stevens can get one,” Fessman deferred.

  “Have him do so, then,” I said, becoming a bit irritated.

  “He’s a sergeant and I’m a corporal,” Fessman replied. “I can’t order him.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said, amazed. “Someone is actually mentioning rank in this bunch of fucked up, misfit, asshole Marines?” I let some of the acid that had brewing deep inside my belly for three days and nights come spewing out in my tone and words. “And then the rank is supposed to mean something?” I would have laughed when I finished. It was funny. I knew that but I could no longer laugh. Laughing was for another life.

  “What are we going to do all day since we have to sit here and make believe we’re taking Hill 110?” I asked.

  “I think we’ll do all the things that make it look and sound like we’re taking the hill,” Stevens said.

  I peeked out from under my poncho cover. Stevens was squatted down, no doubt tracked down and brought back by Fessman.

  “You want a requisition form?” he asked.

  “Roger that,” I replied, rolling out of my hooch. It was dawn. It was time for coffee and a shave and some useless but necessary deodorant.

  “What do you want to requisition?” he asked.

  I filled my helmet with water from one of my full canteens, thanking the great helicopter god of resupply for fresh water almost every day. My Scout Sergeant did not have the faith and confidence of his non-English speaking counterpart. I glanced at my bracelet, and then looked around to see if I could find the Montagnard. Something moved in the jungle. I saw him. He looked back at me, invisible to everyone else. I knew he’d moved in response to my looking for him. How he knew to move was beyond me. The more I learned of the enigmatic silent man the more I liked him.

  “I want tracers,” I said, guiding my Gillette around my cheeks and chin, dipping the difficult to hold little tool occasionally in my helmet water.

  “They don’t make tracers for the .45,” he replied. “Too short range.”

  I wondered if he was making a joke. I stopped shaving and looked into his eyes. He was serious. That was funny too. I thought about laughing. Of course they didn’t make tracers for the Colt. I didn’t laugh, funny as it was.

  “I want tracers for the M16s. In fact, I want all tracers. No more ball ammo. Just tracers. It’s going to work.”

  “What’s going to work?” Stevens asked after a minute or so of thought.

  “You afraid of tracers?” I asked him.

  “Yes, everyone’s afraid of tracers.”

  “Right,” I said, putting a stick of Old Spice deodorant up under each of my arms. I loved the smell of the Old Spice until I put it on. I smelled like shit. I smelled like Vietnam all gooey with Old Spice deodorant.

  “We’re going to light up the enemy at every opportunity and scare the shit out of them. Usually tracers are one of every three to five regular ball rounds. We’ll use tracers for all the rounds. That way the enemy will think that our rate of fire has increased tremendously. And they’ll keep their scared little heads down so we can kill them in their holes. And I’ll be able to see where inside the unit that every 5.56 millimeter goes.”

  “I’ve never heard of this,” Stevens replied, surprise in his tone. “I don’t think anybody’s ever heard of it. We don’t even requisition any tracers for our M16s. The tracers we use are all 7.62 fired from the M60 machine guns.

  “I’ll check with the Gunny,” he said, finally, when I didn’t reply.

  “No, you’ll get me a requisition form like I ordered you, or you can walk the point next time we move.”

  “The point?” Stevens said, real fear in his voice. “You’d put me at the point?” his voice began to rise.

  I realized I’d gone a bit overboard.

  “Just kidding, Stevens. Just get me the form.”

  Stevens rushed off, to be replaced by Fessman, who squatted in the same spot as the Scout Sergeant had occupied. I thought of cokes in a coke machine, for some reason. I also thought that I had to get control of myself. I hadn’t been kidding with Stevens. I was fighting for my life, but I’d already learned that you don’t threaten men with guns in combat zones. Period. Ever. Shoot, bomb, drop artillery on them, but never threaten. A threat took power form the person threatening and gave it to the person threatened. What might happen next was up to the person threatened. And that’s the last thing I wanted. I could not build trust and loyalty by demanding it. I remembered the best training officer I’d had at Quantico. A funny guy who said things like “Irish Pennants” for loose threads, and “Troub City” for a difficult circumstance. He’d one day told us what real leadership was. I hadn’t really internalized what he said but I never forgot the words: Leadership is getting people to do what you want them to do because they want to do it. I was finally coming to understand those words, and just how complex an undertaking it is to lead men in combat.

  I knew it was likely that the rear area would have plenty of tracers for the M16s simply because they weren’t commonly used. The Marines in my company fired mostly in jungle terrain, not across open fields of fire. In truth, I knew the idea of using all tracers hadn’t come to me on my own. A few years earlier I’d read a book about German SS soldiers who’d been allowed into the Foreign Legion to get away from being prosecuted as war criminals. Those Nazi troops had ended up fighting in Vietnam. The all tracer idea was from them. Whether it worked or not I was about to find out. At the very least, using only tracer rounds might cut down on many of the casualties I now knew we were taking from friendly fire.

  I finished my morning preparations for the day by taking a malaria pill, eating a bag of dry cocoa, and brewing a canteen holder of coffee.

  The Gunny appeared in the jungle undergrowth, shadowed by Nguyen. I wondered if the Gunny knew he was there. The scout looked at me from under a palm frond of some species I didn’t know. He didn’t wink but I got the feeling of a wink from the strange silent man.

  The Gunny pulled his canteen out and went to work building a small fire to make his coffee since my own had quickly burned out. The Composition B burned very hot but also very fast. He didn’t say anything while he worked.

  I waited, knowing why he was there. Stevens was undoubtedly staying out of it.

  “Tracers?” the Gunny said, sipping his hot brew, not looking directly at me.

  I knew he was going to nix the idea if he could. I just felt it in my bones.

  “Brilliant,” he said. “You’ve been here what? Three days and a wake up, and you come up with that one. It might just help. These weathered Marines aren’t going to like revealing where they are when they shoot, though,” he added.

  “Won’t,” I answered, speaking to his conjectured concern. “The 16 tracers don’t ignite until they’re fifty feet from the tip of the barrel. And most of the fire going on, I notice, is in the crap we�
�re in right now. They’re not going to like it when everyone knows who’s shooting who in the company though, that’s for certain.”

  “Okay, I’ll give your scout a form,” the Gunny relented.

  “No, you’ll order the tracers for us yourself,” I countered.

  The Gunny put down his canteen holder, took out a pack of Camels, and then took his time getting one carefully out after tamping the pack down against his boot top for almost a minute. He lit one up and blew the smoke toward the position Nguyen had held moments earlier.

  “Tell you what, sir,” he blew another big puff, “I’ll tell the guys that I agree with you and we’ll take less fire from the NVA because of the tracers scaring them off, if you place the order yourself.”

  I stared at the side of the Gunny’s hard face until he finally turned to look back at me.

  “That’s how its played when you’re in your third war?” I said.

  “Re-supply will be at our little makeshift landing zone in a few minutes. The dead and wounded go out at the same time. Gunships can only be spared for one run so it’s going to get a bit busy.”

  “Then you better get me the form,” I replied, knowing I had no choice. The Gunny was riding the middle all the way, stuck between the wants and desires of the errant Marines, the obvious race war going on, and me, the supposed representative of the outside world.

  Stevens appeared out of the bush, like he was following a Hollywood script. He carried a form in his hand, as he walked up.

  The chopper came in from high up, dropping into the small cut away zone the Marines had cleared. Two Huey gunships orbited around the big twin rotor CH-46 as it came down. The gunships, from my position below, looked like predatory and fast-moving cobra snakes. The wind from the landing 46 battered the remaining foliage on the ground until it beat those of us waiting half to death. Debris that had been chopped out took to the air in twin whirlwinds, striking down on everyone and everything below. There was no “Cisco Kid” commando in Hollywood attire to great me this time. I gave my letter home and the ammunition request form to a crew chief who looked tattered, battered and tired beyond the point of exhaustion. There was not one phony aspect to the man’s appearance or behavior. We didn’t speak. He took the letter and the requisition and stuffed them in one pocket of his utility trousers before going to work to wave aboard some of my company’s men assigned to unload the supplies. The wounded went in sacked up in ponchos like living burritos. They were unloaded gently onto waiting gurneys attached to the insides of the big chopper. Several medical personnel were there to receive them. The dead were dragged aboard in body bags, black in color and unmarked. The crew chief was handed a small cloth sack I presumed to be the dog tags of the fallen.