Chapter 7

 

Search and Destroy

 

A year had passed since the marines hit the beach at Da Nang on 8 March 1965. In that twelve months, large portions of North Vietnam were pelted with bombs, napalm and defoliants; the VC destroyed 40% of the United States fuel supplies when they attacked the Esso storage facility; the Cong lost most of their 1st regiment during Operation Starlite; the bloody battle of Ia Drang nearly eliminated the 1st Air Cavalry’s entire Company C; Search and Destroy operation Masher/White Wing was launched; and US troop numbers reached 205 000 by February 1966.

In protest against the war, a Buddhist monk poured petrol over himself and burned himself to death in Saigon, and thousands took to the streets all over the world, calling for a stop to the conflict. Anti-war feelings ran particularly high in Britain, and a home-made bomb exploded against the back door of the American Express building in London. Demonstrators were pelted with eggs, tear gas, arrested and forced back by riot police. Following the protest started by the Buddhist monk, two Americans burned themselves to death, one outside the Pentagon, the other outside the United Nations Building in New York. Draft-cards were also going up in flames.

A handsome young man with long blonde hair and bare feet made his first appearance on a soapbox at California’s Berkeley University. He had a soft, deep voice and used the rhetoric of a born demagogue. At first students were sceptical of him, but when he started to speak out against the war, claiming that the United States’ finest specimens of manhood were dying in those distant jungles, people became ensnared. He started touring the universities, trailing a following that increased at each campus.

He called himself Azharoth.

On 19 November 1965, US dead in Vietnam numbered 1000. There was no figure for the Vietnamese dead, although it was later reported that for every VC killed during Search and Destroy operations, five civilians lost their lives.

 

Frank, Georgie and various others from their training company arrived in Vietnam in late May 1966, to join the 1st Infantry Division, one of five army formations that had been deployed in Vietnam since December 1965. They would be based in the south, west of Saigon, at the hastily constructed base called Camp Forsythe. Their commanding officer was Lieutenant Colonel Tom Hallam.

As soon as the newbies, known as “cherries” arrived, they received a three-hour lecture from a flint-faced officer from the Mines, Bobby Traps and Tunnel Training Centre. His name was Captain Crawford, and he needed a cane to help himself walk as he been wounded in the right foot.

Frank knew a great deal about war, having absorbed every book about combat he could lay his hands on. Most battles were fought on fronts, with two roughly equal sides against each other. Sometimes the side with the most resources at its fingertips won, or the side with the cleverest generals. Occasionally a battle was won by only a few soldiers holding an advantaged position, or by a spectacular new weapon like the atom bomb, or simply by a bunch of die-hard fanatics. Frank knew the story of the 300 Spartans, who in ancient times managed to defeat 10 000 Persian soldiers.

However Frank knew little about guerrilla warfare, and that was what the VC specialised in.

“This war has no fronts,” Captain Crawford began. “There is no field across which two armies can face off, evenly matched with tanks, mortars and guns. What weapons the VC and the NVA have were supplied by the Chinese and Russians, or scavenged from our own supply dumps. They have no air-fleet, tank armies, missiles or reinforced bunkers. Their most valuable resource is their wits, and for a while they managed to completely confound our forces.”

During the first battles against the north Vietnamese forces, the pyjama-clad VC seemed to spring out of nowhere to attack with deadly force, then disappear just as quickly – almost as though by magic. The US soldiers were baffled until they stumbled across the tunnels.

Victor Charlie was living beneath the ground. During their war against the French, they had excavated entire complexes containing dormitories, kitchens, ammo dumps, concealed firing posts, meeting rooms, wells and first aid stations powered by bicycle-controlled generators. As yet, no one knew just how far these tunnels extended. US soldiers of smaller stature were being trained as “Tunnel Rats” to creep down into these warrens and ferret out the elusive Cong. Some of Frank’s friends asked if they could volunteer for this job, thinking crawling through the earth armed only with a torch, a knife and a pistol, would be a piece of cake. Frank didn’t even bother considering becoming a Tunnel Rat. He was far too big and burly to crawl through tunnels dug by slight Asians who averaged five foot three!

“Crawling through tunnels is no easy job,” the captain growled. “Those VC anthills contain even more traps and ambushes than the surrounding jungle.”

“What kind of traps, sir?” someone asked.

Crawford gave a thin, twisted smile. “When you go out into the jungle, you’ll not only have to be on your toes watching out for VC snipers and ambushes, but their nasty booby traps as well. Our troops are uncovering new ones all the time, but the VC have their favourites.” The captain showed the new privates various diagrams of tripwires connected to grenades, small pits filled with punji-sticks smeared with shit and spiked wooden boards concealed beneath dirt or vegetation.

“These are simple but deadly devices designed to wound rather than kill. Demoralising the enemy is often more effective than destroying him outright. You get a shit-coated punji stick through your foot and it’ll swell up like a balloon from blood poisoning. Without treatment it’ll go gangrenous and have to come off. You mightn’t die, but you definitely won’t be happy.”

Some of the new guys tittered nervously.

Capt. Crawford took a deep breath. “If you only learn one thing today, I hope it’s ‘don’t trust anything’. A bridge across a creek or rice-paddy may be sawed part way through and the cut concealed with mud, so when a grunt crosses it’ll break and dump him in the water – right onto a bed of rusty nails. Or the opposite bank of a stream or gully where men jump across might be stuck with more hidden spikes.

“Even short grass can conceal booby traps. A cartridge trap consists of a round buried in a bamboo sleeve with only its tip protruding. The bullet’s primer rests on a nail or firing pin. The pressure of a soldier’s boot can cause it to activate - and fire right through his foot. Several men have already lost toes to this vicious little trap. I myself lost half my right foot to one of these traps. I can’t stress this enough – there is danger everywhere.” Someone put their hand up. “Yes?”

“I heard that there are VC whores in Saigon with broken glass shoved up their pussies, so when you screw ‘em they rip your dick up – is this true?”

A few men snorted with laughter. “Trust you to ask that, Randall!” someone declared.

Crawford gave the grunt a killing glare. “I don’t know – sounds pretty far-fetched to me. I’d be more worried about all other things you can get from Saigon whores, that’ll make your dick feel like it’s been cut with broken glass.”

More chuckles. The captain remained impassive. When it finally died down he delivered a brief lesson on Vietnam’s natural traps.

“There are one hundred and thirty three different kinds of snake here. One hundred and thirty one of them are poisonous. Follow my advice – don’t tangle with anything that crawls around on its belly.”

The new grunts could only shake their heads in disbelief. What kind of a place was this? No amount of slogging through mud in steamy Louisiana, trying to spot shadowy snipers lurking in the trees, had prepared them for this!

Crawford finished by giving them a brief rundown on Vietnam’s climate.

“This is a tropical country, with an average daily temperature of around 90 degrees. The humidity’s usually in the 90s, as you already know. We’re heading into the wet season now, but monsoons can occur all year ‘round, coming in from the south during the summer and the north during the winter. The weather is unpredictable at the best of times. Storms charge in without warning, drenching patrols within seconds and reducing visibility.”

“It just doesn’t get any better, does it?” remarked Randall, the guy who’d asked about the VC whores.

 

Frank and Georgie found themselves in the same company. In charge was Captain Bob Eckley, a slightly built but hard-faced young officer who had volunteered for duty in Nam as soon as the war started. He didn’t talk much and his thin-rimmed silver spectacles gave everyone the illusion he was studious and intelligent. Frank’s platoon commander was Lieutenant Andy Bacon; a burly guy with a big moustache and scar on his forehead where he had caught some shrapnel in Korea.

Even though Frank was an “FNG” – a “fucking new guy” the other grunts liked his easy-going manner and preference to sit back and listen rather than butt in, and he soon became friends with a few guys. There was Corporal Tim “Newie” Neumeyer, tall, blonde and skinny; Private Eddie “Cranberry” Cranston, dark, beefy and very good at cards and Private First Class Nick “Fergus” Ferguson, black, stocky and always ready with a joke. They wasted no time in nicknaming Frank “Tex” because of his accent.

“You had to think long and hard about that one, didn’t you?” Frank asked Fergus.

“We could keep calling you ‘the FNG’ if you like.”

Frank had to take a deep breath to keep from laughing. “No, Tex’ll be fine.”

If the newcomers thought they would be diving into the jungle straight after lunch, they were mistaken. Because the camp was relatively new, the cherries received lots of chores to perform before they could go anywhere. They had to help erect GP tents, large enough to house twenty men, set up their cots, and dig a latrine. They spent their first night at camp jumping awake every time there was a rattle of gunfire outside the perimeter.

This was it; this was real. Those mysterious men skulking around out there didn’t want the Yanks here and were shooting to kill. Frank shivered despite the oppressive heat, and rolled over. Other men slept only a few inches from him, and he could smell Eddie Cranston’s hot, rotten breath every time he breathed out. Not even during basic training had he been so close to his fellow soldiers. Already the place reeked of stale sweat. He didn’t want to imagine it in a few weeks’ time, after he had been living here for a while. Perhaps he would be used to the stench by then.

As soon as the sun rose, the temperature in the GP tent soared. Sweat appeared as though by magic, and the grunts were glad to stumble out into the morning, scratching at numerous mosquito-bites. They used their upturned helmets as washing and shaving-bowls.

Frank turned to Fergus. “I heard a bit of action last night.”

“Action? That was nothing. Happens every night.” Fergus dried his face with a threadbare towel. “Usually it’s nothin’ – jumpy grunts shootin’ at shadows. But sometimes Charlie takes pot-shots at us, and a satchel-bomb comes sailin’ over the wall. That’s when things can become a bit more exciting.”

Corporal Newie ambled over, covered in shaving cuts, his blonde hair standing on end. “One night I was out patrolling the perimeter, and just before dawn I heard some rustling in the bushes at the edge of the clearing – sounded like something mighty big was coming. So I cut loose, expecting to be fired upon at any moment, but nothing happened. When the sun came up, I took a couple of guys out to see if I’d actually hit anything. We found one very dead water buffalo. I must’ve pumped at least thirty rounds into the bastard.”

Frank snorted.

“We dragged him back into camp, skinned him and had ourselves some damn fine buffalo steaks, let me tell you. Far better than the pig-slop the mess tent usually doles out!”

“So, apart from the noise, how did you sleep?” Fergus asked Frank.

“Between the shooting and the heat and the mosquitos and Cranberry’s snoring, I think I got almost a whole hour.”

“Poor baby. Would you like me to run you a hot bath and bring you the morning paper?”

“Oh Corporal – would you?”

“Go fuck yourself, Cassidy!”

Frank shaved, and then prepared for another day of back-breaking labour in the sweltering heat. The chores were monotonous and seemingly endless, but they allowed him to catalogue all the information he had absorbed. At around noon he stopped to watch two Dust-Off choppers fly across.

“What’s going on?” he asked Cranberry, the closest grunt within earshot.

Eddie Cranston straightened, cracking his back. He was working with his shirt off, and Frank could see that he had been here a while – he was tanned a dark, golden-brown. There was a very nice dragon tattoo running across his shoulder blades, courtesy of a parlour in Saigon. “Alpha Company’s out on a Search and Destroy patrol at the moment – one of their platoons could’ve run into trouble.”

“’Search and Destroy’?”

“We don’t know where Charlie is, so we’ve gotta go out looking for him,” Cranberry explained. “Sometimes we can wander for weeks through the jungle without finding anything but those horrible little traps. Can get really boring. Other times we can stumble right into the middle of a major VC ambush.” Eddie turned, showing Frank a scar on his arm. “Bullet grazed me right here. I was lucky. The guy next to me got his head blown clean off. Never seen anything like it. It must’ve flown twenty feet.”

Frank suppressed a shudder. “So, when will we get to go out on one of these Search and Destroy missions?”

“Enjoy the peace and quiet while it lasts.” Eddie picked up his shovel and resumed digging. Frank soon followed suit, his hands already rough and sore. Later that evening he learned that one of Captain Dinning’s platoons had discovered a minefield the hard way. One soldier died, two lost limbs, and several were deafened and peppered with shrapnel.

A few days later and Frank slipped into a routine. He slept a little longer each night, gradually becoming inured to the strange sounds of the jungle, and the occasional clatter of gunfire. He also became used to the damp, mouldy smell inside the GP tent, and Eddie Cranston’s foul breath and resonant snore.

Unfortunately nothing stayed dry for long, and whenever it wasn’t raining, flies and mosquitos harassed the soldiers mercilessly. Even though Frank hailed from a relatively warm part of the United States, he soon got the shits with the weather. Texas never saw rain like this. It was like someone scooped up half an ocean and dumped it on Vietnam on a daily basis.

Every afternoon dark clouds massed on the horizon and unloaded their heavy burdens. Some men made the most out of the weather. They stripped down to their birthday suits, lathered themselves with soap, and horsed around under nature’s own shower. Others preferred to wait until the well was dug, and the real showers completed. Four days after his arrival in camp, Frank decided he could no longer stand the stench of his sweaty, unwashed body. Throwing aside his prudishness, he joined the guys out in the cool, refreshing rain. Newie, Cranberry and Fergus were already lathered up. Newie was doing the whole Gene Kelly “Singing in the Rain” bit. Frank found his stare drifting down to the man’s pale, exposed genitals as he danced around. Quickly he looked away, concentrating on covering himself with soap.

“Whoa, guys! Cover your assholes when you bend over – Tex has finally come out for a wash!” Fergus shouted.

“About time – you were really starting to stink up the tent!” Cranberry responded.

“You should talk, Cranberry – your breath comes straight from Satan’s ass. Besides, the tent already smells like a college locker-room at the end of the football season!”

A few guys snickered at the analogy.

Newie stopped dancing. “Jesus Tex, did anyone ever tell you that you’re one hairy fucker?”

“Was your mother a grizzly bear or somethin’?” Fergus called.

“What is this, a Miss America pageant?” Frank retorted as he washed his short, fuzzy hair. “At least I don’t shave my legs like you, Fergie!”

He wondered why he hadn’t done this sooner. For a few minutes he simply rejoiced in the feel of the cool, refreshing rain beating against his bare skin, washing all the dirt and grime away. Then someone snapped him on the ass with a towel, and he jumped back to reality. He saw Fergus’ smooth, dark-skinned form darting off, disappearing behind two other guys. Frank gave chase, skidded in the mud – and fell sprawling on his belly.

All the men howled with laughter. Frank picked himself up, his chest, stomach and thighs plastered with mud. “Aw shit!”

“Watch your step!” Fergus shouted. “It can get quite slippery around here!”

Frank soaped himself again so he could wash the mud off – and then the rain stopped.

As the sun broke through the cloud, Frank was left covered with soap and mud, more laughter ringing in his ears. “You gotta be quick, Tex!” Fergus shouted.

“You assholes,” Frank growled, but he couldn’t be angry. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had so much fun. He walked over to where the grunts had been filling up their helmets with rainwater, grabbed Fergus’ helmet and poured it over his head.

“Hey, hey – that’s my shaving water for tomorrow morning, you fucker!” Fergus raced over to Frank to stop him, slipped, and landed on his ass in the sludge. It was Frank’s turn to point and howl with laughter. The other guys joined in.

“Serves you right, Fergus!” Cranberry hooted.

That evening Captain Eckley called his men together and informed them that their company was going up into the hills in three days’ time. They would be helping Alpha Company explore the area around the minefield. Maybe it protected a major VC stronghold. There was to be no more showers, since the smell of the soap could give away their position to Charlie.

 

The day they were due to depart dawned hot and cloudy, with a heavy mist in the air. The sun managed to break through at around 0730, and the men of Bravo Company were ready to move out by 0800 hours. They had to take enough supplies for a couple of days, as they would be bivouacking out in the field. Further supplies would be airlifted in as they required.

Frank’s gut clenched with nerves as he dressed, laced up his boots and pulled on his chicken-plate. He tried to ignore the fact that there was a large pink stain down the chest armour’s left-hand side that had undoubtedly been red several washes earlier. The damn thing weighed twenty pounds, and he wondered if it was worth it. It obviously hadn’t done its previous owner much good. Frank shouldered on his bulging pack, holstered his .45 and grabbed his assault rifle. He joined a platoon of similarly kitted out grunts as they assembled for Captain Eckley to inspect.

“Remember what Captain Crawford said – trust nothing out there,” Eckley informed his men during the briefing. “Not only is the countryside deadly, but Vietnamese peasants can be trouble, too. A little kid running into the middle of a patrol might seem like he only wants to greet the troops, but he could have a live grenade in each hand. Men, women and yes, even children, can be wired with explosives.”

“Jesus,” someone whispered.

“We’ve already lost a number of men to these suicidal VC supporters, so for God’s sake keep on your toes out there.”

“Yes sir!” the grunts chorused.

The soldiers piled into the slicks and they took off in a tight formation towards the west. Frank watched the ground drop away, their little camp diminishing to the size of a postage-stamp within seconds. He had already seen it from the air once, but he still thought it looked tiny and defenceless, surrounded by forest, rice-paddies and the occasional village.

Camp Forsythe vanished behind them, and the Vietnamese landscape began to unroll like a rough green army blanket. The country wasn’t all jungle-coated hills like Frank had been led to expect. The lowlands were largely occupied by expanses of rice-paddies, flat fields of grass, occasional stands of trees in which Charlie could hide, and little villages of primitive, grass-roofed huts. Frank noticed little Asians in grey tunics, black trousers and those weird conical hats, working in the fields. Even though these paddies had been cleared, the door-gunners remained vigilant, never taking their eyes from the people. Any one of those innocent-looking peasants could be a VC with an AK hidden under his loose smock.

It was hard to talk over the thunder of the rotor-blades, so the grunts simply watched and pondered on the future. Frank checked out the faces of the guys crammed in with him, and realised they all looked as nervous as he felt. Only Lieutenant Andy Bacon appeared calm and collected, occasionally stroking that soup-strainer moustache of his. Even the combat-experienced Eddie Cranston looked worried, gnawing on a ragged fingernail.

The choppers reached the hills, thickly forested and sparsely populated – perfect VC country. Numerous tunnel complexes had already been discovered here, and the little town of Cu Chi was surrounded by a VC rabbit warren. Bravo Company was heading for a relatively unexplored area to the west, where more tunnel complexes were expected to be uncovered.

The sixteen slicks flew high, out of firing range for most of the trip, but as they approached the Landing Zone, they descended steeply from the sky. Some of the tight corners caused a few of the cherries to turn green and hang on tight. Frank watched the trees rush up through the open door, and his heart leapt into his mouth.

The VC knew the grunts were coming. As the choppers approached the LZ, small-arms fire peppered them from two sides. The door-gunners jerked into action, spraying the areas with M-60 bullets. The lead chopper deposited its load of men, took off, and the second Huey followed suit. In the confined space of Frank’s chopper the machine-gunfire was almost deafening, eclipsing the roar of the rotors. Frank realised that his hands were clenched in white-knuckled fists. The uneven grass of the LZ began to approach, and the grunts prepared to un-ass.

“I see one!” The door-gunner adjusted his aim. “Got him!” he whooped.

Even before the skids touched the ground, men dived out and sprinted across the grass to secure the area. Frank followed their lead, his rifle at the ready. As soon as the jungle’s thick, leafy bushes surrounded him, he felt safer. He heard an order to fan out and hunt for snipers.

The VC rattled off a few more shots, and then the thunder of the second-last chopper’s door-guns silenced them. A quick search of the area uncovered only three bodies – small, black-clad soldiers armed with AK-47s and wearing sandals made out of old tyres. They had been hiding in the trees. Bravo Company’s commander, confirmed the kills. General Westmoreland was very big on body-counts.

Even before the roar of the choppers was gone, the area had been secured. “They were little more than annoyance value,” Captain Eckley declared. “We’ve got a two mile hike through the jungle to where Alpha Company’s camped, so let’s move out!”

“Two miles?” Fergus whined. “Couldn’t we have found a closer Landing Zone?”

“Save your breath for walking,” Lieutenant Bacon growled.

Separated into platoons, the company moved off. Those soldiers experienced in finding mines and booby traps took point. Because of their care, the grunts moved slowly through the hot, steamy forest. Armour and packs began to weigh heavily after only half an hour, and soon sweat was pouring down the men’s faces. Flies buzzed around them. To make matters worse, the men weren’t allowed to talk above a whisper, so they couldn’t converse to pass the time. Everyone kept a wary eye on the dense foliage passing on either side.

But the two-mile journey passed without incident. Bravo Company reached Alpha Company’s campsite at around 11:30, and the men were glad to stop, remove their packs, and have some lunch. Up here in the hills, with only the sounds of nature in their ears, the men felt like they had reached the last place on Earth.

That afternoon the men explored the area around the minefield, hoping to uncover a secret VC base. But if there were any more Cong in the vicinity, they were keeping their heads down. Evening fell without any further sign of the enemy, and Frank spent his first night in the jungle. Like his first one at Camp Forsythe, he spent most of it awake and listening to the unusual sounds of the jungle. Every time someone moved he jumped and sat up, looking wildly around and waiting for gunfire. Like his companions he slept with his hand on his rifle, ready for action.

The next day the GIs discovered the minefield to be quite an old one, probably laid down in the days of the French occupation. It protected a bombed-out base that had long since been abandoned by the Viet Minh, the predecessors of the Viet Cong. When the company commanders reported their findings to Colonel Hallam back at Camp Forsythe, they were told to separate and expand their search.

The days that followed were relatively uneventful. The companies patrolled the surrounding valleys, villages, fields and forests hoping to ferret out more VC. They stumbled across a few traps and mines, but Charlie was proving elusive. Surrounded by heavily armed men some of the cherries felt invincible, like they could take over the world. Even Frank began to relax and think that nothing could hurt him. When Corporal Newie told him that such feelings were common among new guys, he forced himself to be more vigilant. Complacency could get you killed out here in the Zoo.

The jungle stank of damp mud, stagnant water, rotting vegetation and the grunts’ sweaty bodies. The men hadn’t washed since three days before the mission, and regular rainstorms only made them feel worse. Their uniforms became filthy and stiff when dry, and sodden and chafing when wet, literally rotting off their bodies. Every time the choppers came to resupply the GIs, they brought new uniforms. Insect bites refused to heal and began to fester, forming boils and open sores. The GIs could go for days without removing their boots, and some baulked at what they found when the footwear finally did come off. White, wrinkled toes like worms, covered with blisters and calluses, and a stench powerful enough to curl nostril hairs. But oh, the fresh air felt so good on bare feet, and after only half an hour in the sunshine, healthy colour had returned to them. Men hated having to pull their wet, smelly boots back on.

Mealtimes were another small nightmare for the GIs, especially when it was raining and they couldn’t heat their meals. Trying to gulp down cold C-rations while water was pouring into the can, mixing with the solid grease, proved to be a truly unique experience for Frank. Still, he managed to see an upside to the situation; the rain drowned most of the bugs that had crawled into the can!

Out in the field C-rats were a grunt’s staple diet. They were also known as Charlie-rats because they were so disgusting the enemy must have wished them on the US Army as punishment. They came in cases, and everything was packed in tins; dinners, biscuits and spreads, chocolate, cake, pudding, coffee, matches, cigarettes, toilet tissue, eating utensils, sometimes a heat tab, and fruit if you were very, very lucky. Some grunts would literally kill for a can of peaches. When they received their rations, the GIs would start swapping the dinners with their pals. Nearly everyone hated lima beans and ham – it was nicknamed “beans and motherfuckers”.

 

One morning, Frank woke with a big, fat bloated leech stuck to his arm. At first he didn’t know what it was, and could only gape at the hideous little critter in alarm.

“Fuck that’s a big one!” Corporal Newie marvelled, and pulled out his Zippo.

“A big what?” Frank gasped.

“Leech.” Newie lit a smoke and pressed the cigarette’s glowing end against the creature’s back. It detached and plopped to the ground. Its life ended a few seconds later when the grunt stomped his boot down on it, and it made a soft, wet “pop”. “That’s one way of taking care of ‘em.”

“Jesus,” Frank cursed. “Never been bit by a leech before! Are they always so disgusting?”

“By the end of your tour, you’ll be used to ‘em. They’re everywhere ‘round here. I’m surprised you weren’t bit sooner.”

Frank rubbed the welt on his arm. He didn’t like the thought that something small and slimy had attached itself to him during the night, and was feeding on him like some malignant baby.

 

After spotting numerous legless beasties slithering through the undergrowth, the GIs had to become amateur herpetologists or suffer the fatal consequences. Captain Crawford’s warning about Vietnam’s 131 types of poisonous snake rose in the new guys’ minds as they trod carefully through the bush. The most common snakes were kraits, cobras and bamboo vipers. A bite from any one of these could kill within hours. An unfortunate cherry stepped on a krait and was bitten on the calf just above the boot. The bite had to be cut with an “H”, and the poison sucked out. Then a tourniquet was applied, so tightly the soldier’s veins popped up. Until the Dust-Off arrived, he had to be kept as calm as possible – panic increased his heart rate and caused the poison to spread more quickly through his body. Another difficult job was catching the damn snake so it could be sent back with the wounded grunt for venom-extraction.

The man survived because he received medical attention in time.

Bravo Company’s first KIA occurred when the grunts were creeping through a particularly thick patch of scrub. One grunt started screaming that a branch had yanked out the pin on one of his grenades. While he was struggling to find the primed grenade, it went off and the poor bastard went up in a plume of fire.

“Jesus, imagine explaining that one to St Peter at the Pearly Gates,” Frank muttered, visibly shaken by the incident. He had never seen anyone die before. One moment the man was there – the next he was a shredded corpse on the ground. The blast from the grenade on his belt had torn him in half. At least it was quick.

“They don’t tell you about this sort of shit in basic training,” Cranberry muttered.

Frank simply shook his head, stunned by the pointless death. From that day on he made doubly sure that his own grenades were safe and couldn’t be accidentally primed.

The GIs started to get restive and hungry for action. Night after night of sleeping rough in the mud, surrounded by mosquitos and ants, began to fray tempers. Keeping themselves in a constant state of readiness was exhausting them. Frank watched friends light up cigarettes all around him, and hesitantly tried his first smoke. After several minutes of coughing and spluttering, he finally regained his breath and vowed “never again”. How could anyone smoke on a regular basis? It was disgusting!

However, the other grunts didn’t find it disgusting. They told him it soothed their nerves. Eventually, surrounded by smoking GIs, Frank gathered up the courage to try again. This time he didn’t choke nearly as much, and after a couple more puffs, he could inhale without too much discomfort. The guys were right; tobacco did help to soothe his nerves.

 

One afternoon, two weeks after starting their Search and Destroy mission, the grunts of Bravo Company stopped for a quick lunch. They were tired, bad-tempered and heartily sick of Charlie rats, which simply did not have enough calories to keep them going. A few men whinged about the looseness of their fatigues. Even Frank thought that he’d lost weight since they started. There wasn’t an inch of fat anywhere on his body.

“After this, mess-tent food will seem like a banquet,” Fergus muttered.

“I could really do a buffalo steak right now,” Newie agreed. “Shame we haven’t seen one since we started.”

The men fell silent as they ate, and the hot, humid air hung oppressively around them. A thick fog had hemmed them in early that morning, but it evaporated around lunchtime. Only its legacy of humidity remained. Tension throbbed the air, so thick it could be cut with a K-bar.

Then someone cut a fart so loud and long it could have gone into the Guinness Book of Records.

For a split-second the heavy silence continued. Then someone hooted with hysterical laughter. Soon half the company had collapsed in fits of giggles around the man responsible for the resonant flatulence. George “Hattie” Hatfield beamed an appreciative smile for his audience.

Frank waved an arm across his face. “Christ that’s thick. I feel like I’ve just eaten lunch all over again.”

“It certainly smells better than Charlie-rats!” Newie chuckled.

“So much for Charlie not being able to smell us coming!” Fergus declared. “They’ll be able to pick that one up in Hanoi!”

“Maybe the NVA’ll think we’ve introduced some new chemical warfare and surrender!” Cranberry cried.

All four soldiers were now laughing so hard they were crying.

“That’s enough!” snarled Captain Eckley. “This is a recon mission, not a Goddamn frat party!” He kicked a few grunts in the ribs to get them up.

“Party pooper,” muttered Fergus. “What crawled up his ass and died? Someone should frag him.” He climbed to his feet, crossed to where Georgie was sitting, and stuck out his hand. “I’ve never heard a fart like that, Hattie. I honestly thought we were under attack.”

Still grinning, Georgie shook the black man’s hand.

The grunts were able to continue on in a lighter mood. With that single noisy fart, Georgie had effectively eased the tension.

Bravo Company reached a narrow valley and started up the hill on the other side. Trees encircled the top, but its slopes were relatively clear of vegetation, save for knee-high elephant grass. It looked suspicious, but Captain Eckley signalled for his men to leave the cover of the trees and ascend to the top. Moving in a crouch, the squad on point stepped out, weapons at the ready.

“We should just nape the whole area,” Cranberry muttered.

“Napalm doesn’t kill ‘em,” Fergus responded. “It just drives ‘em further underground. It’s like sprayin’ for fleas. You have to kill the entire damn nest.”

“Had a bit of a flea problem back home, did you?” Frank asked.

“Shaddup.” Fergus scratched a bite on the back of his neck.

When nothing happened, the squad continued up the hill. Eckley signalled for the next squad to follow. Not a single sound marred the mid-afternoon as the first of Bravo Company’s platoons headed for the hilltop.

“Maybe there’s nothing here after all,” Fergus whispered.

That was when the sun exploded.

 

* * * *