CUE: Fire and Rain, JAMES TAYLOR
“Somebody help me!”
The fear in the voice had a ragged edge that cut into my soul and touched a place deep inside me where the worst of the worst fears reside. We had all heard the shots. The AK-47 has a distinctive signature sound and loudly announced that the shots, which split the silence and shadowy gloom of the forest, had come from the VC.
The voice came from Olsen. I couldn't see him. He was hidden from view by the thick underbrush, but the desperation that vibrated from his cry for help sank deep into me. It was the last sound he would ever make. I never saw him again. We were engaged in a crawling and shooting firefight that moved beyond the place where Olsen was hit. The medics came to his aide, and the dustoff choppers carried him away, but those of us in the 2nd Platoon simply had to act as if he had never been there. As far as I can recall, his name remained unmentioned among us for possibly thirty years. It was much that way with all who paid the ultimate price. They were suddenly gone, and for us to dwell on the fact could become disabling, so the dead were quietly erased from everyday thought and conversation. Their memory was laid aside, in my own case for decades, until another war claimed young men in battle. Funerals were held, and the sounds of guns fired in salute and bugles brought out the emotions that had been swept under the rug of my psyche. I found myself flinching at the stark crack of the rifles and felt my tears flowing for those who had left us one by one so many years ago without so much as a “Goodbye.” I am certain it is the same for all of us who remain.
I suppose the death of Joe Raber was the only exception to this exclusion standard, but Raber's death was an exception in so many ways that it deserves a chapter of its own.
I imagine this silent treatment regarding the dead is an age-old custom among those who must go again and again into harm's way. Among the troops that took the battle to the enemy in Vietnam, there was a temporary nature to all situations. The tour of duty was only a year, and the combat company was constantly involved with troops who were leaving as experienced veterans or arriving as raw replacements. During this revolving evolution, there was one constant hope. If a man made good and lived through his whole time with a combat company, he would eventually gain the much-coveted title of “short timer.”
Those who had less than thirty days left in-country were treated with a certain amount of deference. They were often excused from risky ambush patrols and were occasionally assigned to off-line jobs, some of which were back in the base camps. In this subtle way, faces that had been a part of the daily life of the platoon simply slipped away and were replaced by new ones. Being “short” was something every line trooper hoped for, but to become a short timer you had to be lucky enough to make the whole tour without getting so bunged up that you were sent to the hospital or assigned to another platoon. For this reason, each man desperately held onto his place on the track, often passing up better assignments where he might never have the chance of experiencing the coveted treatment of the short timer.
The tracks were circled up on a small hilltop, and we were taking some time to eat and write letters before saddling up to go out on yet another ambush patrol. I had reached the point of being one of the more senior members on the Two Zero track. Charlie Dunn had rotated back to the States, and Greg Balsley, who was the driver, was soon to leave for home as well. I was eyeing the position of driver because it would mean I would get to stay with the track and never go out on ambush patrol again. Perc McCaa was also interested in the driver's job. He was much better qualified than I was because of his experience back home with heavy farm equipment. The whole question became settled in a strange way that still bothers me a little.
Several of us were sitting on the ground when we were approached by a tall platoon sergeant who had the unfortunate nickname “Shaky Jake.” He came up, towering over us from his six-foot-two height, and announced, “Stoney, pack your stuff and get on the chopper. You're going to sharpshooter's school.”
I was stunned. This tall, lanky noncom was indicating I had been chosen to go back to the Cu Chi base camp to be trained as a sniper. This was not a good thing for a man who had been out on enough ambush patrols that he was looking to get out of such fun and games in the dark. Snipers spent almost every night out in the bush, looking for someone to shoot. To say that I rebelled at the suggestion is an understatement.
Looking back on the moment, I probably was a bit over the top in my refusal. I am certain I was chosen because of my unearned reputation as the last of the frontiersmen who could follow trails and find his way through the wilderness like Daniel Boone or Davy Crockett. No matter what the reason, my refusal became quite loud and prompted Shaky Jake's rebuttal to attain even greater volume. Naturally, the argument began to draw a crowd. Getting the attention of bystanders was not so bad, but when 1st Sergeant Strain showed up, one look at his face told me something was about to happen. This man had been through World War II, the Korean War and Vietnam, all in the infantry. He had no sense of humor and very little patience with what the army now sent him as soldiers.
In soft and gruff tones, he asked Shaky Jake what was going on. The answer was pretty accurate but delivered in a high, excited voice that obviously irritated the ranking sergeant, or “top kick.” He looked at me for a long moment, then turned to Larry Grubbs, who was still seated on the ground. He ordered Grubbs to pack up and take the chopper to sharpshooter's School. Slowly, he turned and gestured for me to follow him. I walked behind him without saying a word, wondering with every step what kind of just desserts awaited me. We came to a stop next to the command track, the company commander's track. The first sergeant reached up on top of the track and pulled down the headset that was plugged into the command radio. “Here you go,” he growled in his quiet, authoritative voice. “Try using your big mouth on this.”
In this way, with no more ceremony than that, I was no longer a member of the 2nd Platoon nor a member of the family on the Two Zero track. I was the machine gunner and radioman on the command track. I had become one of those who were there one moment and gone the next. My military life would change in almost every way, some good and some bad. My close family ties to the 2nd Platoon would fade as they continued to go out on ambush and lose members of the group to enemy fire, and yet, I had achieved one of my goals. I was no longer a line troop. I was off ambush and part of the command group, which should have made me more protected. Oddly enough, it would almost cost me my life.
“They come and they go,” 1st Sergeant Strain used to say. “They come and they go. They all have the same face, and that face is very young.”
I'm sure he borrowed the quote from someone else, but it was true from his experienced point of view. It was true, and I had made the first step on that journey of change. I was no longer a member of the 2nd Platoon.