Young Man In Vietnam Part 3

When the command group reaches the huts, your first platoon is finis.h.i.+ng its search. They have found nothing and you look at Captain Binh, head of the Vietnamese interpreter-interrogator team a.s.signed to you.

He shakes his head. "No VC here. Only women and children. We no catch VC today."

This is the first time you have worked with ARVN troops. Binh doesn't seem interested in the operation. You wonder whether all ARVN are like that. You knew some Vietnamese officers while you were at Basic School and they only wanted to eat. They weren't very enthusiastic about the training and most of them stuck together and didn't mix with the other officers.

One of your platoons has sent back some Viet Cong suspects and you turn them over to Binh and his men. The prisoners don't look like much to you - mostly old men and women with a scattering of children. Binh agrees with you, and they are returned to their homes. The ones that are retained are sent to collection points where they will be picked up by helicopters and taken to Phu Bai for more thorough questioning.

You hear a low roar in the distance. It grows steadily louder and you can make out a flight of armed helicopters streaking toward a long ridgeline on your left. You watch as the rockets from the copters stream to the ground. It is several seconds before you hear the sound of the firing.

"Somebody's found VC," you say to Binh and nod at the guns.h.i.+ps.

"No VC here," Binh says. "They just play."

You shrug and watch your lead platoons combing the terrain. The sun is well up now and the gra.s.s is beginning to dry. But the air is very heavy and you are starting to sweat. The cultivated land is falling behind you - giving way to sandy soil and steeper hills. You notice the gunny taking a drink - from his right canteen. He sees you watching him and grins, "I've joined up, Lieutenant. I've joined the New Corps." He brandishes a freshly cut walking stick, and you both laugh.

You hear firing to your right and see a Vietnamese in black pajamas ducking into a cave halfway up a sandy hill. You watch a Marine run to the cave's mouth and throw a grenade inside. You duck - even though you are well out of range. But nothing happens. Just when you're sure the grenade is a dud you see the whitened head of a very old Vietnamese man emerge from the cave. He is holding the grenade in his hand and walking unsteadily toward the nearest Marine - the man who threw the grenade. He is returning the explosive. The Marine forgot to remove the protective tape from the spoon. Even if the ring is pulled, a grenade won't go off unless the spoon flies free.

You smile in spite of your anger at the Marine's stupidity and you hear the gunny telling a runner to get the Marine and bring him to the command group.

"I'm going back to the Old Corps for a few minutes, Sir." The gunny taps his stick in his free hand. When you reach a small plateau - the highest point in the valley - you signal your company to take a short break for lunch. You have been moving for hours and you should have let the men rest some time ago. But you wanted to reach the plateau and the going was slower than you expected.

You open a tin of apricots and begin to suck the liquid from the can. You have trouble eating in the field. You think it must be the excitement. You never eat C ration heavies - ham and limas, beans and franks, beef and potatoes. You just like the fruit. And the best part of the meal is the juice.

You have about two miles to go before you reach the end of the valley. Helicopters will pick you up there and return you to Phu Bai. You take off your boots and rub your feet before you give the order to resume the sweep. Your feet are white and wrinkled and have no feeling in them. They don't seem to be a part of you. Two more miles, you think, and you begin to imagine how good a beer is going to taste when you get back to camp.

The valley is getting wider now. It is one of three valleys that empty into a large plain. The plain is a wild tangle of jungle underbrush and trees. No one lives there, and it would take a division a week to search it properly. You are to move to the edge of the plain and signal for helicopters to take you home.

From behind you, you hear the sudden hammering of a machine gun. The bullets crack sharply as they fly past and some make a long whistling sound as they cut the brush. You are yelling for your radioman, but he has been hit and is lying face down in the elephant gra.s.s. The bullet that hit him wrecked the radio and you yell for a runner. You tell the runner to get to the reserve platoon and have them envelop the machine gun from the right. You make him repeat the message and he starts to look up - ready to go - when you hear the gunny shouting.

"Cover him, G.o.ddam it. Give him covering fire." You see Captain Binh disappear into the gra.s.s, moving quickly and running bent over. You tell your runner to wait. The men in your command group are firing steadily now, taking turns and shooting just enough to keep the enemy gunners from aiming. The VC are firing wildly and you can tell they can't see what they're shooting at.

You crawl through the gra.s.s to the gunny. "Where's Binh going?"

"He's going to get himself killed if he keeps this up, Lieutenant. He's gone after the gun. He just said he would go to the right and to give him cover. And then he was gone." The gunny shrugs. "Keep firing, keep firing," he yells.

Suddenly, there is the roar of a grenade going off and the sharp snapping of Binh's submachine gun being fired in long bursts. You and the gunny are on your feet and running toward the enemy gun. You have your pistol in your hand and you chamber a round and ease the hammer down with your thumb. You can see Binh in the distance. He has replaced the clip in his gun and is still firing. Everything else is quiet.

When you reach him he stops firing and stands there with his weapon dangling at his side. There is a foxhole with a camouflaged lid that has been blown off. There are four bodies lying in and around the hole and the gra.s.s at the edges of the hole is burnt black and smoking. The bodies have been riddled with bullets.

"Spider trap, Lieutenant," the gunny says. "That first platoon must have walked right over it and then Charlie popped up and started shooting."

Binh stares at the bodies and says something in Vietnamese. You watch as he prods the bodies onto their backs with the toe of his boot - his face impa.s.sive.

"We finally got some VC, Captain Binh," you say to him.

"VC," he says, "kill VC." He loads a fresh clip and walks back to the command group.

"He's a tough one," you tell the gunny. "That was a brave thing he did."

"Yes sir, it was. But it was foolish too. He's going to get himself killed doing that. And from what I've seen of the ARVN they can't spare too many like him."

You nod and remember your radioman. "Have somebody search these VC, Gunny. And you better get somebody to take care of the radioman. I'll be calling for choppers to take us home as soon as I get a new radio."

"Aye, aye, sir." The gunny shakes his head. "First there was the Old Corps, then there was the New Corps. And now there's this G.o.ddam thing. What's next, Lieutenant?"

"I don't know, Gunny," you shrug. "I just don't know."

6 THE CEMETERY.

R and R means rest and recreation. For those lucky enough to get an R and R flight out of Vietnam it means a lot more. It's sleeping in a bed with sheets. It's having a hot shower and getting really clean. It's getting up whenever you want to. It's having a cold beer. It's not getting shot at - for a few days.

Manila is a pretty quiet R and R town compared to Hong Kong or Bangkok or Tokyo. But when they offer you R and R you take it. It doesn't matter where. Tokyo would be available in a couple of weeks. But in Vietnam two weeks is often a lifetime.

The battalion had been on two operations in the past month. At Vung Mu you had been bloodied. And at Tarn Quan you engaged a battalion of the People's Army of North Vietnam. You'll always remember Tarn Quan and how the enemy drove a herd of water buffalo and some women and old men at your positions. They hoped you would be too soft to fire through them at the soldiers running behind. You weren't soft. And you remember the rice paddy water was red for days afterward. And you remember the screams of the wounded and the dying. And your men sweating and cursing and firing and bleeding underneath the hot Vietnamese sun. And the taste of fear in your mouth when some enemy soldiers broke through your lines. And you remember having to bury the dead and clean the wounded and tell the living there would be more and it would be worse. And the sick feeling in your stomach when they brought your friend Red back in a poncho for his final flight home. You had been in the same platoon at Officers' Candidate School. You thought of the time you went AWOL together to Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C., because there had been no liberty that weekend. They never caught you.

You don't wait for Tokyo or Bangkok or Hong Kong. You go to Manila.

As the plane leaves the runway at Da Nang you feel a tremendous sense of relief. You think about your troops - who haven't gotten any R and R - and you're sorry for them. You tell yourself that your staying wouldn't have helped them get R and R, that you might as well enjoy it while you can, that you'll be back in the field soon enough.

The plane takes sniper fire as it rises from Da Nang and heads toward the sea. Even after weeks of getting shot at you flinch and duck.

You try to sleep as the plane drones east to the Philippines. You spent several months at Subic Bay the year before and you know the Islands and the people. You'd have liked j.a.pan better, but Manila will do. You want to have a good time and that means spending money. Bars and girls are expensive in the Philippines. What money you don't drink up you're determined to bet at the c.o.c.k fights in Quezon City.

As the plane circles Manila, a naval officer points out Bataan and Corregidor. But you don't look. You have seen Bataans and Corregidors by other names - and they all look the same.

You change into civilian clothes at the airport and pick up a ride into downtown Manila. You are with another officer from your battalion and you check into the Manila Hotel.

You go straight to the tub and fill it with hot, soapy water. Jack comes back with a dozen bottles of iced San Miguel beer. It doesn't matter that you won't drink them all. You turn up the air conditioner as high as it will go and sit there drinking and telling each other how lucky you are to get away.

You drink three or four beers apiece and decide to go out and see the town. It hasn't changed much since you saw it last a year before. It's the same sunswept city with the same chattering people.

It is very hot and as you begin to sweat you regret drinking so much. Jack suggests you solve this problem by sampling some more of the local brew. You pick a place that advertises "the coldest beer in the Far East." It is and so are the girls. But that doesn't matter now. You are still enjoying your freedom.

You suddenly remember crouching in a trench near a village as enemy fire whistled and cracked overhead. You had been pinned down for nearly an hour. And while you waited for air strikes to relieve the pressure, elements from an advance platoon were moving back to the trench line. One man was running - low and ducked over - trying to use the huts for cover. He didn't make it. An enemy .50 caliber machine gun hit him in the stomach and he leaned back against one of the huts, holding his intestines in his hands and slowly sinking to the ground. Before you could say anything a corporal dropped his pack and sprang over the parapet toward the wounded man. He had only gotten a few feet when an enemy bullet slammed into his arm and knocked him down. You watched as he pulled himself up and started for the man again. He got all the way to the hut before a .50 hit him in the shoulder and spun him down. His squad leader was yelling for him to stay down. But he didn't know how. After what seemed a very long time he pulled himself up and was reaching for his wounded comrade when another .50 slammed through his chest and he died.

Like a couple of children turned loose in a candy store you and Jack sample everything you can. And move on to sample some more.

You buy a monkeypod salad bowl for some friends back home. The souvenir shops are all pretty much the same. Monkeypod (acacia wood) is the specialty of the Islands and you can get it carved in any shape or design you want. You choose a couple of wooden water buffalo and think about buying a large Marine emblem they have hanging in the back of the store. But you don't have much room to hang things in your tent in Vietnam. You pay for your souvenirs and you and Jack go to the Army-Navy Club to get them wrapped and mailed.

The Army-Navy Club resembles the old British clubs in India. There is no air conditioning, but the Club sits at the edge of Manila Bay and there's always a breeze. The ceilings are about three stories high and punkahs (large fans) keep the air circulating. And there's always someone ready to take your order for a drink. You and Jack sit on the veranda and drink gin-and-tonics and watch the sun sink toward the bay. The only sound is the faint rustle of leaves in the banyan trees and the squeak of a punkah that needs oil. You drink a lot and don't say much.

A thousand miles to the west they will be sending out ambush patrols for the night and rigging b.o.o.by traps and establis.h.i.+ng listening posts. Men will be checking their weapons to make sure that dirt and sand and mud won't clog them when they are needed. They will be stripping the protective tape from the spoons of hand grenades. They will be having their last smoke before the morning. They will be joking and writing letters. They will be thinking and talking quietly to each other. They will be staring into the thickening jungle gloom. And some of them will be dying.

You decide to drive out to Fort Bonifacio and see the American cemetery there before it gets too dark. The taxi takes you through a section of Manila you have never seen before. It could be Westchester or Winnetka or Bel Air. The homes are beautiful and s.p.a.cious and well kept. The gardens and lawns sparkle with tropical flowers in the late afternoon sun.

You pa.s.s through the gate at Fort Bonifacio just before they secure it for the night. You drive along a winding road up the hill to the cemetery.