Chapter 10

 

Operation Attleboro

 

Because Frank and his friends didn’t actually start the brawl, their punishment was relatively light; two weeks of KP each.

“I think another day of R & R would have killed me,” Frank informed Newie very early the next morning, while they were sweeping out the mess tent for breakfast. “My head is still aching!”

“Consider yourself lucky none of us were nabbed for doing drugs,” Newie muttered. “That could’ve earned us all a nice, long stay at the LBJ ranch, with nothing to do all day but exercise, march, drill practise, and KP duty.”

Frank shivered. “I’d rather be out in the jungle shooting gooks.”

The two weeks passed slowly. Now that Frank was used to life at Camp Forsythe, and there weren’t as many hard physical chores to perform, he no longer collapsed exhausted into his bunk each night. More often than not he would lie awake with his tumbling thoughts, pondering on all that had happened to him since he left home. Sometimes he felt like his youth in Promise Falls belonged to someone else. It seemed like he had already lived another lifetime, and he wasn’t even nineteen yet. A deadly coldness was spreading its dark fingers out from the core of his being, and he was powerless to stop it. Already his guilt at causing his friends’ deaths had faded, and he supposed that in a couple of months it would be gone. He would be completely numb, like he was when he’d killed for the first time.

The thought of losing all feeling frightened him. He didn’t want to become a machine twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. It would help him cope with the bizarre nightmare his life had become, but it would mean a total loss of humanity. Vietnam was not what he’d imagined during his youth. He used to have visions of himself striding through battlefields, rifle at the ready, shooting Nazis, Japs and other enemies. Either that, or he was coordinating the battle from afar. He never imagined dead buddies with their bellies blown apart, limbs mangled beyond recognition, and shattered skulls oozing brain-matter. He never dreamed about hot, stinking jungles, poisonous snakes and enemies that moved like ghosts, booby traps and death that could come like a knife between the ribs late at night.

It was also difficult to sleep with a hard-on, but Frank didn’t dare do anything about it while the GP was so quiet. A squeaking bunk invariably caused some smartass to crow, “I can hear someone fucking their fist!” Only the extremely careful could achieve manual relief without attracting attention.

Frank didn’t know why the guys were so damn prudish. Every red-blooded American yanked the shank on a regular basis. To make matters worse, he often thought about what Lieutenant Bacon had told him about Lt. Colonel Hallam. He fantasised about the Colonel calling him into his tent and ordering him to submit to a thorough uniform check.

Hallam mightn’t have been young or particularly handsome, but he had an excellent physique. Unfortunately the order to present himself at the Lieutenant Colonel’s tent never came, and each night Frank was left with a mighty throbber that no amount of ignoring could tame.

Was it any wonder fights among the men were common? Was it any wonder nearly half the damn camp had come down with the clap?

 

Frank wrote in his diary every day. He also wrote letters to his mother, Meg and Pinky every week, and for a while they wrote back just as religiously.

But one day the letters from his mother stopped coming. In her last note she gave no indication that something was wrong. It was the same as all her others; a simple slice of life from Promise Falls, containing gossip about locals whom Frank mostly wanted to forget about. The only information of note was about Charlie, their black maid. She left the household to marry her childhood sweetheart, the motor mechanic. Nora seemed upset by her decision, but Frank didn’t think she would have stopped writing to him because of it.

Frank wrote to Meg, asking her if she could find out what had become of Nora Cassidy. Meg replied that she would, and in her next letter, she informed Frank that no-one appeared to be home at the old Cassidy house. She’d knocked several times, then peered in through the front windows, glimpsing nothing but sheet-covered pieces of furniture lurking like squat ghosts in the gloomy parlour. Ever curious, Meg pushed open the side gate and went around the back. The back door was closed and locked, the kitchen blinds drawn. It looked like Nora had gone away for a long time.

In her next letter, which Frank received a few days later, Meg informed him that she’d spoken to a few neighbours. All save one informed her that they had no idea what had become of Nora Cassidy. Old Mrs Fetherstone from across the road told Meg that she’d seen Nora load a few suitcases into the back of a second-hand Ford station-wagon, then take off north towards Waco – “kind of like a bat out of hell,” the octogenarian elaborated.

Without telling anyone where she was going? Frank wondered as he read the letter. That didn’t make any sense, considering Nora’s predictable personality. What had happened to her? Concern rose, but trapped so far from home in a hostile country, Frank couldn’t do anything about it. There was no point continuing to write to his mother. She knew where he was staying. He hoped that one day she would write to him from wherever she had gone, and let him know what she was up to.

 

Frank was almost glad when he had to return to the jungle. Life on base was starting to drive him crazy, and he wondered how the remfs could stand it without the occasional rigours of combat to break up the monotony.

He didn’t fear dying. One day when Newie asked him what he thought about death, he answered; “It doesn’t frighten me.”

“Why not? Aren’t you scared you might go to hell?”

“Why? I’ve been to hell already. It’s right here in Vietnam. Whatever ol’ man Splitfoot deals out after I die can’t be any worse than what I’ve had to go through here.”

The Corporal could only nod sagely. Frank was right; when the heavy artillery started pounding, and the senses were assaulted by smoke and fire, the stench of blood and decay, the screams of the wounded, and the sight of bodies torn apart by modern weaponry, Newie also felt like he had died and gone straight to hell.

“I fear wounding more than death,” Frank continued. “Lying in the jungle waiting to die while I have a bullet in the guts or a leg blown off is just about the worst thing I can think of.”

Bravo Company partook in a few more search and destroy operations around the local area. For the most part these were uneventful, with the grunts creeping through the waist-high mud of rice-paddies, exploring more small villages and hot, steamy forests. They were sniped at by VC who vanished as though by magic, they stumbled across more vicious booby traps, and in one of the tiny, nameless towns, a GI was killed when a lovely young Vietnamese maiden beckoned him over, slipped her arms around his neck, then blew up. Her entire body had been wired with explosives.

After this horrific incident, Lieutenant Bacon’s platoon were ordered to clear out the settlement. All the villagers were forced out of their houses at gunpoint and made to assemble on the road outside. Old men, women and little children had to watch while the GIs torched their straw-roofed houses, where they had lived all their lives.

“They’re all VC sympathisers,” someone muttered as the simple dwellings burned, sending sparks shooting high into the air. “We should just kill ‘em all and let God sort ‘em out.”

“What, even the kids?” another grunt asked incredulously.

“Why not? They’re only gonna grow up to be commie bastards just like their Dads. And now we’ve Zippoed their village, they’ll hate us even more.”

“Jesus.” The other man whistled.

“Whatta you say, Lieutenant? It’ll up our body count, and no-one will ever know.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, Private,” Lt. Bacon growled at the GI, and his glare could kill.

The guy lifted his hands. “Hey, hey – I was only joking!”

 

Operation Attleboro was well underway, and by this stage Frank already had one battle and several minor skirmishes under his belt. Each time out in the field he had performed with exemplary courage, remaining cool and clear-headed. His strange ability to reach into himself, past all the panic and screaming, into a place where there was only silence, had already earned him the respect of his platoon. Men started calling him “the Unfazeable Frank”, like he was some sort of superhero. However, only he knew what this power had really cost him. While other GIs raved about their wives and sweethearts back home, or their dear old mothers who’d just sent them a box of candy, or various juicy young Vietnamese girls they’d met in Saigon, Frank could only listen and feel like he was staring in through a foggy window.

Certainly he could still laugh and share a joke, but his heart just wasn’t in it any more. Where it had gone, he had no idea.

The heavy ordinance that had pounded the area for several days beforehand left large patches of moonscape; huge, empty craters, great mounds of dirt, fallen trees and the rubble of burnt-out bunkers. As the men of Frank’s company picked their way across the cleared areas, they felt exposed, and worried that the enemy might try for another ambush from these sites. Out here they were sitting ducks.

Fortunately, a lack of hiding places for the American soldiers also meant a lack of hiding places for the Communists, and the grunts were able to proceed deeper into enemy territory. The hot, stifling air was eerily quiet, devoid of birdlife. The grunts breathed easier as they descended into virgin bush once more, but remained on their toes; the verdant camouflage worked both ways. Machetes came out to clear the worst of the foliage in their way.

The Unfazeable Frank was up the front, although not experienced enough to take point. He kept an eye on the surrounding bush for any sign of movement. An ambush was imminent – only time would tell when. Thus it was almost a relief when the first machine-gun bullets came, strafing the lead men. Two guys managed to dive for cover, but the third was hit in the side, spun around and dropped to the ground. He managed to nip his scream in the bud, so as not to attract more fire to his position. Gritting his teeth, he fumbled for a field dressing to clamp over his wound.

On his belly, Frank wriggled into the dense undergrowth, at the same time trying to work out exactly where the damn bullets were coming from. The dinks certainly knew how to hide themselves in this countryside, and always made sure they were engaging the GIs on their own terms. They knew they would lose otherwise.

Through the leaves Frank could see a small clearing, and a dark gap in the undergrowth in the far end. That could have been where the main bunker was hidden.

It was then the NVA came in from both sides, firing on the main body of the company. The grunts leapt into action, returning fire. Corporal Newie and the other machine-gunners began laying waste with their pigs. Grenades started exploding in the jungle. The NVA’s 273^rd Regiment were about to learn that the men of the 1^st Infantry were nothing like the green grunts of the 196^th who had gone before.

Frank noticed the green uniformed figures of the NVA slipping through the jungle, as quickly and easily as their VC cousins. Once again he had managed to hide himself well, and they didn’t see him as they concentrated their fire on the other men. He seemed to have developed a natural ability to creep through the jungle. Calmly he lifted his M16 and fired at the green-clad soldiers as they moved forward. It was times like these that he wished he had a silenced weapon, because now they knew where he was!

He fired carefully, making sure to hit the soldiers in the chest or head, and never using more bullets than he needed to down a foe. Some of the new guys in his company tended to spray away willy-nilly, wasting rounds just to make sure a gook was dead.

After seeing three of their comrades drop, three more NVA soldiers separated from the main group and approached Frank’s position, AKs at the ready. He weighed his chances, tossed caution to the wind, and sprayed bullets across all three of them. Two fell, their skulls shattered, but the third was only wounded, and started screaming, a strange, high-pitched gurgling cry. Frank cut his losses and fell back to the main body of the group.

By now the very air seemed to be on fire with bullets, grenades, and mortars. The stench of cordite, gunpowder, hot steel, smoke and blood was unbelievable. But Frank was in his calm place now, his brain working as easily as well-oiled clockwork. Off to his right he noticed more shapes moving through the bushes; the slight green forms of the NVA. He spun, firing at them, and two more fell. Bullets splattered his position, and he ducked for cover behind a fallen tree.

A few yards away, he noticed some sprawled figures. One of them was wearing olive drab, the other three the dusty green of the NVA army. Frank thought the GI was dead until he moved a bloodstained arm, trying to reach the M16 that had fallen into the dirt beside him. Frank checked his surroundings, then hurried to the soldier’s side.

He found himself looking down at Georgie Hatfield. His chest was a bloody mess, and he was breaking in short, choked gasps. His dark brown eyes locked on Frank’s, but he couldn’t speak. Frank pulled Georgie’s blood-soaked shirt apart to bare his torso. Blood poured from a chest wound that looked like a little mouth breathing with each one of Georgie’s tortured gasps. When he tried to draw air in, the wound would suck closed, then when he breathed out it parted, spraying drops of blood everywhere.

Frank helped Georgie into a sitting position, hunching him over to restrict the flow of air into his chest cavity. He pulled out his field dressing, made a wad and got Georgie to press it against the wound. “Medic!” he called.

Suddenly, a searing pain erupted in Frank’s left shoulder, and then he heard the bullets whine around him. He fell across Georgie’s body, and then rolled off and collapsed on his back on the ground. Clenching his teeth against the pain, he sat up, lifted his M16 and returned fire. But his gun dry-clicked a second later, and he tossed it aside, snatching up Georgie’s fallen weapon. A glance down at his shoulder revealed that it was covered with blood. He could feel its warn wetness trickling down his chest. The bullet had passed right through his body. At least it’s clean, he thought as he resumed firing into the bushes, not caring that he couldn’t see the oncoming enemy soldiers. His left shoulder screamed in agony, each recoil of the gun like knives in his flesh.

If he could detach himself emotionally then why couldn’t he detach himself physically? Why did he have to put up with this bullshit? Why didn’t the quiet place deep inside him also allow him to walk away from his pain?

Another bullet tore into his thigh, lodging in his flesh. He howled with pain and fell onto his side, almost losing his grip on his weapon. Through the trees he could see the NVA soldiers approaching like jungle ghosts. They seemed to be satisfied that he was down, and were moving away from his and Georgie’s position.

“Big mistake,” Frank snarled. Again he willed himself to rise. He focussed on forcing the pain back into the dark place within him, where all of his fears had retreated.

And then, miraculously, it went. Not completely, but enough so he could rise to his knees and aim into the trees, at the shifting, shadowy figures’ backs. He gritted his teeth and let the little bastards have it. He saw his bullets meet their mark, thudding into the exposed bodies and dropping them. A couple of the soldiers managed to turn, bringing their weapons to bear, but his bullets splattered across their torsos. Blood fountained from their wounds, and they tumbled out of sight. Savage glee lifted his lips into a ghastly smile. Die, you motherfuckers, die! he thought, firing until no more green shapes remained.

Frank scanned the undergrowth for more slopes, but he couldn’t see any. Neither did anymore bullets strafe his position. He could still hear gunfire, but it was up ahead, nowhere near him and Georgie.

Frank collapsed by his old classmate. Georgie’s eyes were glazed and staring fixedly ahead. He had lost his grip on the dressing, and it had fallen on the ground beside him. It was drenched with blood; useless. He still tried to breathe, but his gasps were shallow, almost imperceptible. Frank grabbed his hand, squeezing it. It was cold and clammy, as limp as a dead fish.

“Come on Georgie – you can’t die here,” Frank wheezed. “You’ve gotta go home and prove to your Daddy you’re a man!”

If Georgie heard him, he gave no sign.

“Medic,” Frank croaked, his own voice deserting him. He squeezed Georgie’s hand again and stared into his eyes, willing him to live.

But even Frank’s phenomenal will couldn’t reach that far, and slowly the life drained from Georgie Hatfield’s eyes. His head fell back onto the dirt, his steel pot rolling away.

“Fuck,” Frank whispered, and for the first time since his arrival, he felt tears sting his eyes. “Sorry I bashed you up with a baseball bat, Georgie,” he whispered.

He gathered Georgie into his arms and held him close.

Suddenly he noticed a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye and whirled around, grabbing his assault rifle to blow the crap out of whoever it was.

Sergeant Hayes, the field medic, had to pick his way around several bullet-riddled corpses to reach the two GIs huddled in the clearing. More bodies lay in front of them. “It’s only me!” he gasped, lifting his hands as he stepped into the clearing. Frank relaxed his grip, heaving a sigh of relief.

“Check him!” He pointed to Georgie.

Hayes knelt beside Georgie, checking for vital signs. Sadly, he shook his head. “I’m sorry – he’s dead.”

Frank pushed himself to his feet, swayed then collapsed to his knees. More sticky warmth coursed down his skin. His newfound ability to deaden his own pain didn’t extend to stopping blood-loss. “Gawdammit!” he cursed. The medic looked up, noticing all the fresh blood on his chest and leg.

“Christ, you’re wounded too!”

“It’s … just a little scratch. Give me a band aid – I’ll be all right.” Frank tried to get up again, but it just wasn’t happening. Hayes pushed him down with very little resistance and cut the cloth away from his shoulder. “Come on man – I need to get back into the fight.”

“No you don’t. Just lie still and let me do my job.”

 

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