I’ve got dirt in my mouth and I hurt like hell. I try to open my eyes, but I can’t get them to open. It’s like trying to come out of a deep sleep; I want to wake up, but I can’t quite get there, flopping around like a fish on the bank of wakefulness. One thing I can do is get this dirt out of my mouth. I am trying to figure that out when my hearing starts to come back.
I can hear the muffled sounds of someone screaming and the crump of shells landing nearby. Above all, there is the almost continuous rattle of small arms fire. Coming through the haze are two voices; I try to figure out who they belong to and what they are saying.
“Is he alive?” the first voice asks.
“I think so,” the second replies. “His eyes are open, but he isn’t registering. Let’s get him up.” Are they talking about me? Who the hell are they? I can’t register. I wish whoever is screaming would stop; it’s confusing, and it’s scaring me. Hands pull me off the ground where I have been face down. There is a moment of gyrating scenery; I see churned up soil, a glimpse of sandbags, and then part of a leg from the knee down, clad in sterile fatigues and a jungle boot. There is a vision of sky, smeared with dust and black smoke. But out there, somewhere, during that brief spinning view, I had seen beautiful blue sky. The image of that leg, though, panics me. Is it mine? And why can’t I shake this off? I can’t seem to get a clear thought through my head. I am trying to feel and see if both my legs are intact. Everywhere I touch hurts and I can taste blood in my mouth. It’s mixed with the leftover grit. A face looms in front of mine and looks at me intently. This person takes a canteen and sloshes some water on my face, then wipes it with a cravat. I can see a little better now. I know that face.
The face turns and yells off to his left, “He’s alive, but he ain’t gonna be on no quiz show.” Then he turns to me and kind of smiles as he gets up and takes his weapon and runs off to my right. He moves too quickly for me to follow.
The man disappears over by a remnant of a sandbag trench line and what looks like a bunker. I am propped up in what appears to be another bunker, but there isn’t any overhead cover. I can see who was screaming before. It is a Yard. He is beyond screaming now. He is eviscerated and lying there, clutching his abdomen, trying to hold in his entrails. His shirt, what is left of it, has been ripped apart. Around his abdomen is a combat dressing, which he is clutching to the wound, desperately, as if it will stop the process of dying. It is soaked with so much blood it seems to be part of the mess that is poking out around it. I look at his face. He is staring, but not seeing, and his whole body is trembling. I know that tremble; it’s when the body is in so much pain and agony that the nervous system short-circuits and that’s all you have left. There is a morphine Syrette pinned through his cheek. It’s completely used. Someone has done him right, since we all know that the Yards can’t take a full Syrette; it’ll kill them. From the shape he is in, he doesn’t have many moments left. We’re told not to give morphine for a stomach wound because it masks the symptoms. Whoever dreamed that one up has never had to spend much time with someone who has been ripped apart.
I hear a machine gun firing off to my left and I turn to look. I spot the leg again and it’s lying in the trench to my left front. It is incongruous; there are no other body parts. Is it mine? No, I can see both of mine. I pan left and see two Yards manning an M-60. They are burning up ammo in long, controlled bursts, down and away. The gunner is intent and he is switching the gun position as he fires. You can tell he is dialing in on a new target each time he moves.
There is a rhythm to it, a five or six round burst, the gun barrel moves, five or six rounds and it moves again. I try to lift my left arm to swat at the place where an expended round from the 60 has hit me in the head, but my arm and hand are all floppy. The casings come out in a steady stream, hitting the left side of my head and the sandbags I am leaning against.
I lean to my right to get away from them. I see the other Yard, who is feeding the gun, stop, reach back, and jerk the pin from a grenade. As he does, I hear a couple of AKs open up, firing in long bursts. The sandbags in front of me kick with each impact, as sand and soil spurts out where the rounds hit the tops of the bags. Someone is trying to knock out the gun. The gunner is firing to the left when the other Yard chucks the grenade to his right and down slope. He swings back and does the same with another grenade. There is the crump of the first one as the second is lobbed in the same direction. There is another sharp crump and someone starts screaming. The AKs stop firing, but the M-60 never ceases. There are a couple of discarded ammo cans lying at their feet. The second Yard pulls a full one out of a pile of about six more, snaps the top off, pulls the square box out, and then hooks another belt to the belt that is already in the gun. He repeats the process, making sure the belt feeds at an acute angle to the gun, guiding it with his left hand. He has his CAR-15 leaning against the trench wall and the barrel is smoking, the heat cooking the oil out of the metal.
I am so groggy I think I am drugged. I run my hand along my cheeks and then my lapels to see if there is a morphine Syrette stuck there, to show that I have had a shot. No Syrette, so I must be groggy from wounds or concussion. There is blood all over my left side, and what looks like small pieces of meat near my knee. I feel no wounds, so it must be someone else’s blood. My mind is telling me that I need to get back in this fight. I still can’t remember where I am or what we are doing here. I am looking for my weapon, but it is nowhere near me. I reach back and the movement sends stabbing pain down my back. I finally locate the little sawed-off twelve-gauge I keep in a nylon pouch slung across the small of my back. I give it a couple of tugs, but it won’t come free. Then I remember to loosen the length of elastic that loops over the butt. I get it out and reach up to find the pouch where I carry 25 rounds of double aught buck and slug and take two out.
I break open the shotgun. There are two already in it, a slug in the left barrel and a double aught in the right. I look down and I have one of each in my left hand, just like I pack them. I do this so I don’t have to look when I am reloading. I am still shaky as hell, but I need to find my CAR-15 and I am not going to crawl around looking for it without something to protect myself with. Not here. There are obviously a bunch of folks trying to kick our asses, wherever we are. I am looking at the Yards, as the gun slacks off. They aren’t from my team. Who the hell was that face I saw? I know it, but still can’t get a cognizant thought going. The Yards look at me, and then back down the slope.
There is more automatic fire from over the hill. There is the sound of a variety of weapons. I can recognize several CAR-15s and at least one M-60. There is also the unmistakable sound of a few AKs. The AKs sound as if they are farther off and their fire diminishing. Then I remember who it was who’d been leaning over me. It was Davidson! I hate Davidson; he has more bad luck than that little guy with the cloud over his head in “Li’l Abner,” Joe Btfsplk. Davie gets shot at more than a duck in a shooting gallery. The man is a veritable bullet magnet. What in God’s name am I doing with Davie? Where is Mac? Did we commit some great sin that as punishment we had to go on a target with Davidson? If we are on top of some hill with him, we are in deep kimchi.
I am trying to get up. I have to find a gun now. I get as far as my hands and knees. I cradle the shotgun. I just know the yellow horde is going to come busting over the berm line. I hear running behind me and roll, bringing the barrel up just as Eldon slides into what’s left of the bunker. I could almost kiss him. If Eldon is here, I’m safe. At least I’m not up here alone with that whacked-out, little sawed- off runt, Davidson. Eldon pushes me back into a sitting position and looks me over.
“Are you alright?” he asks, peering at me intently.
“I’m fine.” Only it comes out, “Ooom firrlm.”
He shakes his head and holds me by the harness. “Don’t try to talk. Just nod if you can understand me.” I nod. “We got choppers coming in. We’re going to put you on the first one with the other wounded.” Wounded? I’m not wounded; I already checked. Did I miss something? I start looking myself over again just to be sure. Eldon just squats there, looking at me like I had my pee-pee out in public. Don’t just squat there staring at me, you fool. With Davidson on top of this hill we are probably about to get shot at by some sort of super secret weapon the NVA are trying out for the first time. Get out there and find him, hide him, bury him, throw him off the mountain, anything, but get him away from us or we are doomed. Such are my thoughts, but Eldon just continues to stare at me with concern.
“Do you understand?” He is looking at me intently, evidently not liking what he sees. He yells over in the direction where the firing is not so heavy. I hear scrambling, and Davidson comes tumbling into the hole. He turns to Davie. “Stay here with him. He’s still not all here. When the first bird comes in, get him on it and the Yard from on the other side of the sixty, okay?” That’s Eldon, all business. I am so glad to see him that for a minute I forget what he has said. He is going to leave me here with the fucking varmint.
“Don’t leave Eldon! Just shoot me. Finish the job, for God’s sake. If you leave me here with magnet-ass, I am as good as dead.” I try to yell my concerns to him, but all that comes out is weird mumbling. The nagging thought about wounds is still at the back of my mind. Then it dawns on me. I am being sent out. “Wait guys, I can still fight. See, I got my twelve-gauge. If you send me home all the other guys will think I am a pussy. You can’t do that.” I try and tell them I am not leaving, but it comes out in some sort of alien language that sounds like Iroquois.
Davidson looks at me and says to Eldon, “What the hell is he speaking, Martian? Boy, that explosion really screwed him up. Ya think we should let him have a weapon? He might shoot himself by accident.” He grins and Eldon sort of smiles. You two goobers just try and take this gun from me. I’m gonna shoot both of you.
Eldon listens on the radio for a minute and then says to Davie, “They are about five minutes out.” He pauses and then continues, “Get him on the first bird and we will load the two we got on the other side at the same time. After that we will load you and your guys out; then I will bring mine out last.” Davidson nods, and Eldon gets up in a crouch and runs across and over the hill. Davie yells at someone over to our right about getting the wounded ready. No, Eldon! Don’t leave me here with Yosemite Sam! Everyone from The DMZ to the U Minh Forest knows he is a magnet for anything fired from a barrel -except they never hit him. They hit everybody else. Davie reaches down and plucks the twelve-gauge from my hand, and shoves it back in the sheath on my back. He smiles at me with that feral little smile of his and tells me everything is going to be fine.
Yeah, I’m going to be alright, as soon as they lift me out of here. If you’re not on the same bird, that is. If you are, sure as a bear uses the forest for a latrine, we will get shot down. I suspect that whatever and wherever this explosion was, he was right next to me when it happened. I am willing to bet money on it. I can hear the choppers coming. I see a Cobra flash by and as he goes out of sight I hear his Minigun open up. I can’t hear any enemy fire so they must be suppressing any thoughts of continuing the attack.
There is the familiar flap, flap, flap, of a Huey rotor slapping into short final, coming closer. Davidson and one of the machine gun crew grab me and half carry, half drag, me to the bird. A Yard who is shot in both legs is loaded on my side first. Then I am lifted and shoved inside as two other Yards are shoved in from the other side. One is shot up pretty bad and the other has what looks like shrapnel wounds to his back. The crew chief is looking everyone over. All the others are obvious, but I appear to be less injured except for the blood all over my left side.
He looks at Davie and asks, “Where is he hit?” I guess in case he has to check my bandages on the way back.
Davidson says, “Keep an eye on him, he’s been drinking.” Then he runs off as the chopper lifts and banks off the top of a narrow ridge. I can see the ruins of what appears to be an old bunker and trench line. There are at least two teams of our guys spread out amongst the bunkers. There is a black spot to the rear of where I had been. The guys are bagging one body, or maybe more, in and around the area. There are about half a dozen bodies clad in khaki down slope to the right. I get a brief glimpse of the fight; then we are gone. The crew chief keeps looking at me with a bemused look on his face. Yeah, real funny Davie. The crew chief probably thinks I am drunk. I wish I were drunk. What in the name of God was I thinking? Even with the positive karmic aura of Eldon around, why would I go anywhere with that runt from Waco? Maybe I was drunk and that’s how I got here. That has been known to happen. You have something that I need to run a mission, but you won’t give it up? Give, or next thing you know you are a kidnap victim and we take you along. I did that to Castro once. The Yards onboard look at me with the same mixture of pain and relief that I am sure I have. I make the universal, “Got a cigarette?” sign to the crew chief. He nods and hands me a pack of Camels with some GI matches. I light one up, hand it to the Yard that is propped up, and he leans over and puts it in his buddy’s mouth. I light another one for him. He takes it and smiles. I try to light mine, and am going to light one for the Yard on my side, but my hands begin to shake so bad I can’t. The gunner reaches over, lights both, gives one to me and puts the other between the Yard’s lips who is lying between us. The Yard reaches up, pats my leg, and gives me the “Everything is okay, Trung Si” look.
I look out the door at the terrain. I am still woozy in the head and I have no idea what happened, or where we have been. The area isn’t ringing a bell and I don’t trust myself to talk. The crew chief motions to ask if I want a headset and mike. I shake my head, no. I don’t trust myself to respond in anything that won’t resemble gibberish, which will confirm his suspicions.
The sprawling military camps, of which CCN is the last one, and the cobalt blue of the South China Sea loom into view. We are descending rapidly and the air gets warmer as we do. We flash over the trash dump 100 feet off the ground. I can see the trash pickers scurrying around, and then we are flaring and setting down on the pad. Figures run up to the chopper and gentle hands take the Yards off. Someone starts to help me and I shrug them off, with the intention of getting off and walking. My legs fold under me and I collapse on the ground.
I am lifted and placed on a stretcher, then it’s onto a gumey and we are moving slowly towards the infirmary. I see Doc Wang doing triage as we go along, and recognize the concerned faces of guys I know as they each loom into view, and then disappear as another face appears. I still can’t hear all that well so most of it is muffled comments that I can’t understand. We are taken up to the infirmary.
The Yards have I Vs in them by the time we get there. I am taken inside where one of the nurses and someone from the medics take my harnfiess off and begin to cut my clothes off, checking for wounds as they go. Doc Wang looms into view. I feel a sharp prick in my arm and drift off into never-never land.