CUE: For What It's Worth, BUFFALO SPRINGFIELD
The sharp snapping sound just overhead caused me to hug the ground as if I could melt into the damp earth if I tried hard enough. The thick darkness enveloped us completely, hiding our numbers and our movements from the eyes of those who would stop us. The cloak of night was our best friend, but it was also a terrifying equalizer during nocturnal encounters in unfriendly territory. These were the days before infrared goggles and night-vision glasses. At the time, the gloom of night favored those who knew best how to use its invisibility, and too often that proved to be Victor Charlie—the Viet Cong.
The snapping sounds came again, and I rolled over on my back to see that the tracer rounds, which split the dark above us, were red. Red was the color of the tracers used in American machine guns or those of the ARVN, which were supplied by the Americans. The shots splitting the air just over our heads were from friendly weapons. I crawled on my back up next to Lester, who was on his back as well. In whispered obscenities, we discussed the possibility that we had stumbled across another ambush patrol that was unaware of our presence in the area and were firing at what they thought was a group of VC.
The others, who lay behind us in the darkness, began to stir. We could hear the voice of someone on the radio attempting to make contact with the company. The hushed voice was trying to explain the situation in flat, whispered tones. When a hard slapping sound ripped the night air above us, the power of the whiplike concussions and the lime-green color of the tracer rounds explained the situation all too well. Green was the color of communist-issued tracer bullets. We were prostrate on the ground, smack in the middle of a firefight between American and NVA forces.
My pulse began to thunder in my ears as the realization set in. The rush in my temples seemed to pound harder as some of the rounds flying overhead struck limbs of the rubber trees and showered us with leaves and pieces of bark. The impact of the bullets was higher up in the trees than I had anticipated. In fact, they would have missed us if we had been standing upright. Lester raised his right hand into the darkness as the rounds cracked overhead. I thought he had lost his mind, but his gesture made it clear to both of us that the shooting was not low enough to hit any of our group. It eventually became apparent that they were not shooting at us. We were simply pinned to the ground, in between the two antagonists, who seemed totally unaware of our presence. The issue was whether to try to move out from under the line of fire or simply wait it out, without getting shot in the process.
After what seemed like an eternity, word came down the line in muffled whispers that we were going to try to crawl out of there. There was the chance that our side might call in artillery to suppress the heavier enemy machine-gun fire, and we might just get caught in the middle of all that. Moving was a gamble, but staying might have been an even bigger risk. My mouth was really dry, and I pulled out my canteen to get a sip of water when the shooting stopped as suddenly as it had begun. The silence hung in the inky night and became almost louder than the shooting had been. Fate had taken a hand. We could not chance a move now. We had no idea where either side was hiding, nor which way they might move in the darkness. Our very survival depended on our not being discovered by anyone until sunrise.
We seemed to have been trapped in a slight depression in the ground that was large enough to house the entire group. It's possible the very nature of this dish-shaped area was what had made the line of fire so far above us. At any rate, it provided a modicum of cover for the group, and so the nine of us circled up and faced outward, not knowing from which direction trouble might come. The hours passed and we strained our ears for any telltale sound in the gloom beyond us. I don't know about anyone else, but I never heard a thing.
Sometime in the early morning, Lester and I began to spell each other so we could get some sleep. I took the first turn, and he rolled up in his blanket, cradling his weapon in his arms. During that first watch, the moon rose over the rubber plantation, and the thick darkness was washed away by the soft glow of silver light, shining through the trees and making odd patterns of night shadows on the ground. You would think that being able to see was better, but on this night, I felt as if the cloak of darkness had been pulled from our shoulders and we were laid bare for the eyes beyond the trees to discover. I looked down the line of our defensive position and could see each and every one of us clearly. My stomach sort of rolled over as I realized how vulnerable we were.
The night passed slower than most, but as the sun warmed the eastern sky, each of us was awake to see what kind of fix we might be in. The early morning light revealed the faces I had not been able to see in the darkness. Gilreath was peering intently over the breech of his M-60 machine gun, sweeping the tree line with the intensity of one who hopes there is no bogey man just over the horizon. Dennis Kinney was just to the left of Gilreath. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep and darted back and forth as he peered through the trees, trying to see some sign of what had kept us penned there all night. Lester was quietly cleaning his glasses, which were constantly filmy in the Asian climate. Each man held his position and waited for what would come in the morning light.
Two hours of bright sun failed to produce even a single hint of a combatant from the night before. Finally, the lieutenant rose from the ground and motioned for us to follow him in the direction from which the green tracer bullets had come. We walked warily through the stand of rubber trees, only to find that no one was there. They had pulled out sometime during the night. We made radio contact with the company and asked about the friendly forces that had shot over our heads in the darkness. We stood around under the shade of the trees while static-filled responses told us no one had been reported in the area by higher authority, nor had there been any reports of an action with the enemy during the night. It was all as if it had never happened.
As we carefully made our way through the regimented lines of rubber trees back to the relative safety of the tracks, I was struck by the absurdity of the whole situation. Here I was, thousands of miles from my homeland, engaged in a war that was not of my choosing, serving with men who were similarly trapped in the foibles of the times, returning from an armed incident in which even the players couldn't tell the players without a program. At that moment, the World War II acronym snafu took on a new meaning, and I felt a strange kinship with every man who had ever shouldered a rifle or followed the flag. I am sure that at one time or another, they all felt what I was feeling at that moment. As we entered the circle of tracks and made our way back to the 2nd Platoon, we were asked again and again, “What happened?” Lester and I simply shrugged. The truth was that nothing had happened. A whole lot of nothing had happened. How do you explain that?