Thirty Days Has September Read online

  Fessman nodded. “We’re Tango Tango Deuce, and I think the officer there is Lieutenant Howell but they call him Lieutenant Howler, because he’s kind of loud.”

  “Why deuce and not delta?” I asked, delta being the proper alpha-numeric for the letter “d,” but he didn’t answer. I went on, “Since you’ve been gossiping a bit, can you tell me if they’ve been in contact with Captain Morgan and his company?” I held the mic in one hand and my canteen holder in the other, sipping from it between phrases.

  “Who?” Fessman asked, looking befuddled.

  “Army artillery,” I replied.

  “I don’t think so, not that I’ve overheard,” Fessman said.

  I turned back to the Gunny. “I’m going to register our current position as a night defensive fire location. Hopefully they don’t know at Bravo Battery where we are. Once we clear here and get across onto the ridge overlooking the A Shau, I’ll zone fire this whole area. The battery back at An Hoa, the 155s and the Army outfit, if they’ll fire for us. Whoever stays back here can either run all the way back down and across the Go Noi to be court-martialled, or be shot or die right here.”

  “Kinda thought,” the Gunny said, after scooping more ice cream into his mouth. “The knuckle-knocker’s won’t fight.”

  “Crap,” I replied angrily. “Jurgens and First Platoon won’t lead the attack and that threat came first. It’s not totally about race. It’s about who the hell is commanding this outfit and, if that isn’t you or me, then we’re all dead anyway. It’s just a matter of mathematics and time.”

  “Want me to give him the bad news?” the Gunny replied, not sure whether he was talking about Jurgens, Sugar Daddy, or both of them.

  “I don’t really give a shit right now, Gunny, whether they stay or leave with us. In fact, if I could order it, which we both know I can’t, I’d order First and Fourth to squat right here. They can both meet their maker on their own terms. I’m sure they’ll have an appropriate nickname for him, too. I want to see the kid with the blooper round in him.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem,” the Gunny said, washing his canteen holder out with what was left of his own water. “Nobody’ll get within ten meters of him.”

  The Gunny handed me my helmet, which I hadn’t seen him take. I looked at the front of the green-side-out cloth cover. The Gunny had used a magic marker to color in a single large black bar on the front. Underneath, in smaller letters, he’d printed “Junior.”

  I put my canteen holder down on the poncho liner and accepted my helmet back.

  “That’s so everyone will know your rank,” the Gunny said, no expression on his face.

  “A junior lieutenant,” Fessman said, with a laugh. “Second Lieutenant, junior lieutenant.”

  I glanced at my radio operator. He stopped laughing. I put the helmet on, realizing I really didn’t give a damn anymore about what anyone called me. The difference one week made.

  I called the registration mission in to Bravo Battery of the Americal outfit. Using the Tango Tango Deuce identifier was laborious compared to simply directing Russ to fire at my own battery. I hoped using the Army battery would be somewhere close to being as effective as my own had been. I registered the tree line on the opposite side of the Agent Orange oily open area, as well. I had to use Russ very sparingly because of our position on the gun target line, and being at the end of charge seven (maximum) range inaccuracies.

  The Gunny guided Fessman and me back through the jungle to a position not far from where I’d killed the three enemy approaching in the night. It disturbed me that only hours later, I didn’t have much memory of the when and where of the event. The first men I’d killed, and I couldn’t remember them well. Not what I’d been led to believe from friends, family, movies, television and even the higher officers at The Basic School. I wondered if I’d recall the incident in more detail later on.

  We came upon another of the strange small clearings that appeared like some kind of tiny oasis in the heavier wooded mountain jungle. A Marine lay on his back with one of the company corpsmen bending over him. I squatted down next to the corpsman, meaning to ask how his patient was doing but the wounded man spoke before I could.

  “The crazy lieutenant,” he said, his voice a raspy whisper.

  I leaned back a few inches, surprised to identify the Marine from the sniper incident.

  “Don’t worry lieutenant, I’m not going to explode, or anything,” the Marine continued, laughing gently.

  I could see that his throat was wrapped in combat bandages, like the rest of his torso. I couldn’t tell where the M79 round had gone in and, short of an X-ray, nobody would be able to figure out exactly where it had come to rest until they cut him open, if he made it that far.

  “You’ll be on the medevac in a few minutes,” I said, recovering.

  For some reason I felt close to the man, and a regret I’d not experienced since before arriving in county. Outside of the mixed acceptance I’d received from my scout team, the first platoon grunt had been the first, and possibly only, man to find my presence in the company acceptable at all.

  “Doc told me,” the wounded man said, “the Army guys are coming, thanks to the Gunny. Stick with him, sir, and you’ll be okay.”

  I gripped the Marine’s hand and wished him well back home. I stood looking down at him and thought about my own situation. If the chopper didn’t blow up and they got that grenade out of him, he’d be out of Vietnam and back in the world, while I’d remain behind or be dead. All I had to get me through was a completely broken down and dysfunctional company, my small strange scout team and the Gunny. First the tracers, and now the Army warrant officers coming in at the Army captain’s orders. The Gunny had done magnificent work, I thought grimly. I’d spoken to my own battalion commander exactly once since I’d been here, the XO never, and I had no idea what the other Marine Companies around us had in the way of orders.

  I moved to the position I’d occupied to call in fire the night before, hoping to find the Army’s Bravo Battery at least the equivalent of the Marine outfit firing for me out of An Hoa. Stevens, Zippo and Nguyen came out of the jungle behind Fessman and me, as I prepared once again to rain down hell on the tree line across from our position. Knowing they had my back made a big difference, with Jurgens and Sugar Daddy still seething and convinced that my removal from life would improve their situations.

  The very edge of the sun rose above the jungle horizon. In the far distance I could hear the familiar sound of Huey chopper blades, but the sound of the coming medevac and resupply seemed different from before. The choppers sounded more like a flock of Huey bees than the distinct whooping of blades I’d become used to. The reason for that became apparent only a few minutes later. Three utility Hueys came up into view along the open area that flowed north from our position. Above them flew five Huey Cobra attack helicopters. The attack helicopters swooped ahead of the regular Huey delivery birds, a sight to behold. Black instead of Marine Corps green, they had giant shark’s teeth painted on their noses and looked ferocious. Three came in low and two wound back and forth above the three. Without taking any fire, they opened up on the jungle behind our opposing tree line.

  The utility choppers landed in a clump close to one another, and the crews went to work. I realized we weren’t going to need any artillery support. The Cobras were tearing up the same area I would have called fire into, and the artillery rounds would have endangered the choppers themselves, anyway. The Marine with the grenade was whisked aboard one of the machines while boxes and bags were dumped from the other two. Three body bags went aboard the chopper that took the wounded Marine.

  I looked at the black bags being loaded aboard like stiff bundles of covered fire wood. I could not dredge up any emotion at all.

  “They put on quite some show,” a voice behind me said.

  I put down my Japanese binoculars, having checked the c
ockpits of the Hueys to assure myself that the pilots really were little more than kids. With helmets on and through the low light penetrating the windshields, I couldn’t make out much but their laughing smiles. They had to be what they’d been described to be, I knew. I turned to find the Gunny and Pilson behind me. The tone of the Gunny’s voice hadn’t been positive, but I ignored it. The Army was doing the Marine Corps a big favor, not in simply providing a vital medevac our own service would not provide, but in supporting our coming high risk crossing of the Agent Orange sodden expanse of open ground.

  In what seemed like only seconds the Hueys pulled out, leaving two stacks of supplies behind. I waved at the choppers, although I could only see the machine gunners stationed just inside the wide open sides of the machines. The one Marine who’d said I was “his crazy fucker” was going home, leaving me in hell with a bunch of Marines, most of whom probably felt they’d be a lot better off if I’d been on that chopper carrying a grenade in my chest.

  Full dawn lit the open area as I studied it, slowly sweeping the tree line back and forth. In spite of the volume of rocket and rotary machine gun fire it absorbed only moments before, it looked untouched, except for a few lingering wisps of rising smoke. There had been no enemy firing when the choppers were so highly exposed. I pictured the NVA forces lying in wait, crouched down inside their fabled, but as yet unseen, tunnels and underground quarters. They’d be waiting for the real enemy that they had to know would come. Waiting for us.

  thirty

  The Seventh Day : Third Part

  There was nothing to be done until crossing the open area in front of us was imminent, except get hold of some of the rations and water. My letter home was in my pocket, forgotten for the first time, my full attention and following thought process had been unable to refocus after the three body bags were loaded into the choppers. I’d forgotten to mail my letter home. Belatedly, I wondered if it mattered. Would Marine mail get through the Army system and make it all the way home or would it be discarded into some holding or dead-end bin? Before I could get my things together enough to get ready for the coming mad dash to the distant tree line Nguyen showed up, lugging one of the white plastic bottles of water and some big green envelopes stuffed into his utility pockets. He dropped his load with a thud, and then several of the packets. We exchanged glances but neither of us spoke. For some reason the Kit Carson Scout communicated more loyalty and respect in utter silence than any of the others in my small team, with the possible exception of Fessman, could do in speaking.

  I picked up one of the thick green envelopes. “Food Pack, Long Range Patrol Ration” was printed in black letters on the deep green background. I held food packet number two, which was labeled “Chili Con Carne.” The bag had been made by a bag company in Rochester, New York. If the food was any good, I mused to myself, I would put that place on my places to visit if I got back to the world. I refilled my two canteens with Fessman’s help, the big plastic bottle being heavy, slippery and cumbersome to handle. The instructions on the package said I had to heat three quarters of my canteen holder with hot water, so I poured that too. One pound of water, or thereabouts, I recalled from my conversation with the Gunny earlier.

  I waited for the water to heat over my explosive little fire, poured the contents of the bag into my canteen holder and then began to eat with my single combination fork and spoon. The chili tasted like nothing I’d ever tasted before. I looked around to see if any of the rest of my team were eating it, but they were taken up with heating and eating whatever they had. All the food kind of looked and smelled alike. I went on eating, reading the back of the envelope to pass the time. Two thousand calories were supposedly being transferred from the tasteless bag contents to my body, but it seemed like a whole lot less. I looked around for the Gunny, but he had not returned from his mission to talk to both Jurgens and Sugar Daddy about the coming move.

  I took out my government-issue black ballpoint and wrote another letter to my wife. How I had forgotten to mail the one in my pocket was bothering me more than I could explain to myself. Was I becoming lost down the rabbit hole I’d fallen into to the point where I was losing perspective about what was important and what was not? I tried to write, but could not. What was I going to write? One of those existential tomes I’d read by the great philosophers in college but never really understood. Nihilism? I was living it. Abandonment? Right here with me like a cloying mosquito-bitten friend. I could write none of it. My wife had to be tired of reading about what Fessman looked like, what Stevens was up to and why I had scouts who never scouted anything, anyway. I could write her that they were scouting all night long to make sure none of my Marines, with some good cause, were coming through the mud and mess to kill me. I grimaced, pen in hand. My hand was not shaking though. Terror was becoming the dark moving creature that accompanied me everywhere but no longer lived deep inside whatever core I still had left. Terror was the NVA ready to kill me in the crossing of that open area. Terror was First Platoon. Terror was Fourth Platoon. Terror was a crazy M79 grenade launcher who shot anything that moved, or didn’t move.

  I wrote: “The weather is cooler up here at this higher altitude. I’m going to this lovely valley inland called the A Shau. I’m not sure you can even find the place on a map in the library back there. I don’t know how far it is or what the weather will be like there. I ate chili today and it was pretty good.” I thought for a moment, looking over at my child-radioman. “Fessman says hello.” I signed the letter and put it in one of the little blue-colored envelopes with the shape of the country on it. No matter where terror was around me I swore I would not forget to mail my letter home again. I had only Mary and Julie no matter how few days I had left. I had something. I jammed the envelope down into the pocket that held the other one, checking to make sure it was still there.

  The Gunny came loping back to his hooch, moving faster than I’d ever seen him move before. As he passed by my small mud area he tossed a packet onto the only dry part of my poncho cover.

  I was about to ignore the package and crawl over to the Gunny’s hooch when the edge of a map stuck out of the side of the clear plastic bag. I stopped, grabbed the bag and tore it open. Half a dozen one to twenty-five thousand contour interval maps fell out. Relief flooded through me. I could not call artillery without a map. Without an accurate map of any area all I could do was adjust fire from the gun target line or simply guess at where we might be. Both of those methods were eventually terminal in result. It only took me seconds to orient myself on one the maps. I looked up to where the berm we would have to go over to cross the open area was located. We weren’t even close to the A Shau Valley. It wasn’t even on the map, although I knew the direction where it had to be. I hunted through the others until I found it. I’d thought we were moving a few thousand meters to the valley but our move was going to be whole lot longer than that, as the A Shau was a good twenty thousand meters ahead and the terrain was all mountainous with poor cover and little concealment.

  “Death march,” I whispered to myself. Where would our supporting fires come from? Cunningham fire base was on the edge of the valley firing away in our direction. Calling them was almost as bad, for accuracy purposes, as calling back to my own battery, although we would be slowly getting closer to the Americal the more we traveled. There had been no geography classes at The Basic School in Quantico. The first Vietnam map I’d seen had been examined in country a week ago. I wondered why they had taught us so little, even though they all had to know exactly where we were going. Almost all, I reflected. The senator’s son had not gone with us. On the last day of TBS Major Kramer had announced the occupational specialties we were to be assigned. That’s where I’d been assigned to artillery and ordered to Fort Sill. Sam had been the only officer to get a really different and weird specialty. He was to become a reporter for the Stars and Stripes and be sent to Korea. He’d been mortified by the public announcement, made by the heartless major in fron
t of all 246 of the rest of us going to Vietnam. Sam had broken down and cried. I’d felt so sorry for him. Until now. I now knew I’d change places with him in an instant and I would not care who I had to cry in front of to get the assignment. I folded up my maps and stuck the mass into my morphine pocket. I never had to check the morphine. I knew it was there waiting, and it knew I was there too, waiting. I crawled over to the Gunny who was making his usual canteen holder of coffee.

  “When do we kick off?” I asked, making no move to get my own canteen holder out.

  The Gunny didn’t reply, so I waited, my ability to squat for long periods, without pain in my ankles or knees surprising me.

  “They’ll go,” the Gunny said, getting right to the point without my asking. “Some of them have been to the A Shau before. They call it the Ah Shit Valley. I’ve been there too and I call it something else. The Valley of No Joy. The Valley of No Return.”

  “But you came back,” I said, wondering if I sounded stupid.

  The Gunny sipped coffee and then smiled one of his uncommon smiles. For the first time I realized he had wrinkles on his face. The Gunny was old.

  “I didn’t come back,” he said, slowly, looking far beyond me over my shoulder. His expression was dead, once the smile faded from his lips.

  I almost gave in to a powerful temptation to turn and see what he might be seeing behind me. But I didn’t.

  “This isn’t me,” the Gunny said, and I could tell there was absolutely no humor in his tone. “This is just the Gunny you see sitting here with you. That other Gunny is never coming back.”

  “What does battalion say?” I asked, changing the subject as fast as I could. I thought of asking about being brought in on all command communications but afraid of the expression the man still wore on his aging face. I couldn’t believe I’d missed the fact that he was so old. I knew he had to be at least thirty-five or forty. My shoulders slumped. I would never see twenty-three, much less forty.