Fields of Fire (11 page)

“Is there any trick?”

“Nah.” Phony stared at Wild Man for a moment, never losing his smile. Then he walked to his fighting hole and picked up a grenade. “You just hold it like this—”

Bagger blanched. “Don't, Phony. Goddamn, we'll catch so much—”

“And let the spoon fly like this!”

“Oh, Christ!” Bagger lay flat, holding his ears. “Fire in the hole!”

There was a sudden boom inside the crater. Dust and dead flesh flew into the air. Along the lines, in the other parts of the perimeter, there were surprised, querulous howls. At the command post the radio screeched with interrogatories from the company commander. Snake and Hodges ran to where Phony now stood, nonchalantly grinning in the midst of a group of sprawled, surprised new dudes.

Snake confronted Phony. “What the hell is going on?”

Phony answered amiably, his head bobbing as he talked. “Aw, they was asking me about how I done it last night and the only way to tell 'em was, you know, to show 'em.” He shrugged helplessly. “So I showed 'em.”

Wild Man grinned hugely, his active eyes in awe of Phony. “What a shot! You are crazy, man! You are crazy as hell!”

Snake shook his head, glancing at Hodges, then took Phony's shoulder. “You keep it up, Phony, and somebody's gonna lock you in the brig.”

7

From the air they would have been barely visible, a half-mile string of burdened green ants, struggling up a kidney-shaped, foliated anthill.

In the weeds where the wind would not blow, Bagger sweated freely into his flak jacket, shirtless underneath it, and adjusted one of his pack straps. It was cutting deep into a shoulder. “If this is Tuesday,” he drawled wryly to no one in particular, knocking a branch out of his way, “it must be Phu Phong four.”

The ville, designated on American maps as the fourth hamlet in the village of Phu Phong, and hence, Phu Phong (4), was one of many frequent perimeters used by the Marines in their random wanderings across the valley floor. Four hundred meters across at its widest point, it sat on a high, kidney-shaped mound, covered with trees and shrubs and high weeds, scarred by years of bombing, and dotted with ragged, straw-thatched hootches.

From the heights of Phu Phong (4), Hodges got his first clear look at the layout of the Arizona Valley. To the west, beyond three other similar mounds that made a bumpy line toward the village, was the only prominent terrain feature in the valley: Razorback Ridge jutted bald and high and rounded, like the back of a huge pink hog, out from the blue-green gloominess of the wall of western mountains. In all other directions from the village there were wide seas of rice paddies, brown with harvest rice, dotted with lower villages and occasional treelines that floated like islands in the rice.

Far to the south, over the wide cut of an oozing river, Hodges could just make out the brick-red trail of dust that was puffing up from east to west, as if someone was skywriting on the Basin floor. The morning convoy from Da Nang, twenty-five miles west and north, was grinding its way toward the regimental combat base at An Hoa. Far southwest there were the red scarred hills, the high claydust mist of An Hoa itself. Three, perhaps four miles away, but unreachable and thus irrelevant, except when it came time for resupply or artillery support.

The Arizona Valley was a veritable island. A northern river separated it from the calmer Dai Loc District, where there was access to Da Nang. The southern river cut it off from the rest of the An Hoa Basin, where there were two artillery bases—at Liberty Bridge and An Hoa—a Vietnamese Popular Force compound at Duc Duc near An Hoa, and a road capable of transporting the convoy. The northern and southern rivers came together at the eastern tip of the valley, where Liberty Bridge sat just beyond their confluence. And to the west, as all around the larger basin that held the valley, canopied mountains rose like foliated skyscrapers, unpopulated barriers that stretched all the way to distant Laos. The North Vietnamese owned the mountains.

Phu Phong (4) was the highest village in the valley, and an ideal fighting perimeter for the Marines. Hedges and holes would provide good cover and concealment. The draws of the hill, and the open, sweeping paddies would give good fields of fire if they were attacked.

The company went on line and swept toward the far edge of the hill, moving slowly past ragged hedges, clumps of hootches, clusters of junk and dented cooking pans, torn straw matting, stench-filled waterbull pens, and staring, stolid villagers. Hodges noticed the evidences of other warring units as they swept. There were dozens of fighting holes along the fringes of the hill, many so old that weeds had claimed them. There were old mortar pits, and dozens of burn holes and straddle trenches. Worn portions of the villagers’ thatch roofs were often patched with C-ration boxes or strips of American ponchos.

As the company dug into its new positions Hodges strode the hill, examining it. At its very crest was a long, Z-shaped trench, chest-deep and as wide as a man's body. It was perfectly sculpted, the walls of the trench absolutely parallel. In the middle of the trench, just to one side of it, was a large, circular hole, four feet deep and about six feet across, with the earth left in the middle of it as a perfectly cylindrical post. It seemed to him to be a work of engineering genius.

He called Snake to the trench. “What is this? I've never seen anything like it.”

Snake scratched a tattoo, bronzed and shirtless in the heat. “Everybody likes this hill, Lieutenant. That's the way the gooks set up.” Snake jumped into the trench, demonstrating. “They don't need any circle. They don't need to protect all those radios and shit. If a man stands in this trench he can blow you away no matter which side of the hill you come charging up.”

Hodges pointed to the circular post. “What about that?”

“That's a machine-gun post. Prob'ly a fifty-cal. Maybe a twelve-seven. You put a tripod on the post and get down in that hole and you can fire three-sixty degrees, keep a bead on a jet coming and going, hardly even expose yourself.”

“That's stomp-down amazing.”

“Hey, Lieutenant.” Snake measured his new Brown Bar carefully, not yet accepting him. “Old Luke the Gook don't screw around.”

Snake sat comfortably at the edge of the NVA trench, peering steadily at Hodges. Finally he grimaced. “You shouldn't of made Flaky burn that boot. Sir. Bad style. It stunk.”

“It would've stunk anyway.”

“My new man Senator threw up.”

“I was sick of looking at it. What a mess. Don't you ever clean up?” Hodges studied the man who had already shown himself to be the most proficient member of his platoon. “What would you have done?”

“I'da buried it.”

“Then why didn't you?”

“Sir?”

“Why didn't you? You had the CP for half a day. You sat up there with all those flies and shit. You were acting platoon commander. If it pissed you off so bad, why didn't you bury it?”

Snake smiled slightly, surveying Hodges with fresh interest. “ ’Cause I don't like dead stuff. I never touch dead stuff. I just leave it alone.”

“Well, I don't like dead stuff, either.” Hodges’ eyebrows lifted and he offered Snake a grin. “That's why I burn it.”

Snake shrugged, satisfied. “O.K. Lieutenant. I just never seen it before. It made my man Senator get sick, I told you.”

“Yeah.” Hodges sat across from Snake. He took out a pocketknife and cut himself a plug of chewing tobacco that had come in a Supplementary Pack, along with cigarettes, candy, and writing gear in the resupply. He pulled his map from a lower trouser pocket, and studied it, then looked to Snake.

“We're gonna ambush Nam An two tonight. Half the platoon. Your squad and a gun team and me.”

Snake lit a cigarette, staring coolly at Hodges. “Did you think this up yourself, Lieutenant?”

“Are you crazy? I got nothing against Nam An two.” The two men smiled at each other with a tentative fraternity. “Know any good places?”

Snake took out his own map, pondered it, then peered down the hill into the paddies, scanning the narrow string of trees across from them that marked a heavily used speed trail. Nam An two was one mile down the trail. “There's a little cemetery just off the speed trail, maybe a hundred meters from the ville. We could put a gun on the trail. Easy to defend in the cemetery. Might make a Number One ambush.” He eyed his new Lieutenant. “Long as we gotta go.”

“Yeah. Well, we do. Skipper's breaking me in, or something. Says we'll have a good shot at the gooks if they move down the trail toward the company tonight. Hell, I don't know. Says we should have first shot.”

“He's all heart, ain't he?” Snake watched Hodges spit a stream of brown tobacco juice into the dirt. “You really chewing that SP tobacco, sir?”

Hodges nodded casually. “It ain't that bad.”

“Bagger says he wouldn't give it to his horse for worms. If he had a horse. And it had the worms.” They laughed together. “Only thing that ragweed's good for is feeding gooks who won't answer questions. Fucks them up, Lieutenant! One swallow of that and they sing like stoolies.” Hodges shook his head, amused at Snake's quick humor.

Snake reached into his lower trouser pocket and pulled out a pack of Marlboros. “Here, Lieutenant. Have a smoke.”

“I've been trying to cut back. Bad for your wind.”

“You gonna worry about that out here? Hey, Lieutenant. We are all sucking wind.”

Hodges shook his head, still amused, and took a Marlboro. He spat out the chewing tobacco and rinsed his mouth with canteen water. “Bagger's right. It tastes terrible.” He casually placed the remainder of the plug into his low trouser pocket.

“You keeping the rest of it?”

“ ’Course I am.” Hodges grinned, his amused face thanking Snake for teaching him this latest Lesson Learned in Vietnam. “For gooks.”

PHU Phong (4) had three good wells, deep concrete holes with raised portions of earth at the base. The French had built them for the villagers. They sat at the base of the village's steep hill, equally spaced along a wide, dusty trail that ringed the village on a paddy dike. The dike itself was thick and high, separating the village from the surrounding fields. Hundreds of smaller, lower dikes latticed the paddies in a maze that somehow held deep certainties to farmers.

Marines flocked to the wells in groups of twos and threes, refilling canteens and washing. Village children gathered and gazed somberly at their frolics, standing off of the trail in the dry bush. The babysans were sickly and unwashed.

Goodrich leaned over a concrete hole, drawing water out of it with a half-gallon can that had once held apple juice supplied to the Marines. The can was left by some other company that used Phu Phong, and made into a bucket by the villagers. Goodrich worked the rope, pulling the can of clear, sweet water from the black hole, and poured it over his face, drinking thirstily. The move to the Phu Phongs had exhausted him.

He then turned to Speedy, handing him the can. “I really think those kids hate us.” Goodrich spoke as though the feasibility had never crossed his mind.

Speedy tossed the can into the well and let it sink, then drew it back up. He found Goodrich's comments perplexing, naive. “We try to kill their papa, Senator. This whole valley VC.” Speedy gorged himself on village water.

“That's a hell of a note.” Goodrich forced a winsome smile. “It'll take a little getting used to. I just hadn't expected to be hated. Not by them.”

Speedy drew another pail of water, mildly irritated. “Ah. It don't mean nothing, Senator.” His wide, brown face went orgasmic as cool water poured over it again. “We get over to the Phu Nhuans, on the other side of the river, the kids are better. They hustle for you. Fill canteens, help wash you, stuff like that. We give 'em C-rats and cigarettes for it. It's all right.” He attempted to console Goodrich, himself unconcerned with staring children. “It's better over there. You'll see.”

Speedy scrutinized Goodrich, who was still studying the children, apparently lost in thought. It appeared that Goodrich was becoming upset. Speedy finally ran at the babysans, throwing his arms out threateningly. “Oidi, you little fuckers! Oidi mau leni”

The children stared at their attacker for an unfrightened moment, then turned and walked solemnly through the brush, back up the hill. Goodrich held the water can over one of his canteens, filling it.

“You didn't have to do that, Speedy. I didn't mind them, really. I just can't help feeling sorry for them.”

Speedy's flat face cocked curiously and he grimaced to Goodrich. “Make up your mind, Senator.” He looked back through the brush. “Those little sons of bitches'll do your ass, I mean it.” He took the bucket from Goodrich and tossed it back into the black hole of the well. “Don't feel sorry for 'em, Senator. You give 'em chow, their old man eats it tomorrow night. You turn your back”—the brown face splashed with water again—“they steal everything you got. Grenades. Everything.”

Speedy took a long drink, then peered philosophically at Goodrich. “Those little babysans are devils, man. No shit. Devils.”

“I still can't help it. I mean it. None of this is their fault.”

“Well, none of this is our fault, either.” Speedy stared solemnly at Goodrich. “Do yourself a favor, Senator. Frag yourself and get the hell outa here before you crack up. You don't belong here. Know what I mean?”

THE stand of trees loomed like a low black cloud in front of them. Goodrich watched it grow larger, strained to find some light or movement that would disclose the great chimera that sat among the sunbaked branches, waiting to scorch him dead. The column seemed to jet along through the knee-deep rice. Goodrich fought reluctantly to keep the pace. Too fast, he mused loudly, the thought echoing through the chambers of his fear. We'll walk right into them and when we get five feet away they'll kill us all. I've heard the stories. Who the hell's on point? Doesn't he know they'll kill us all? What will I do? Can't hear anything but clonks of LAAWs and bandoleers and rice swish on my legs I'm thirsty need a drink. What if I just take out a grenade and pull the pin and hold it so when they start to kill us I can throw it at them how will I know where to throw it I can't see a fucking thing not even Burgie and I could reach out and touch Burgie he's that close look at the trees now we're so close we could die at any moment who the hell is walking point?

Thud. Goodrich tripped over Ottenburger, who was squatting in the rice. He fell down next to him, the echoes of his bandoleers a scream inside the ear horn that was his helmet. Burgie grasped him quickly and held him to the earth.

“Lay chilly, Senator. They're peeping out the treeline.”

Goodrich sat very still, then turned his head slowly toward the trees. The whole column was kneeling, motionless, frozen like a picture, swallowed by rice. It was so quiet he could hear the distant booms of artillery shooting out of An Hoa with a clarity that seemed to come from just on the other side of the looming trees.

Four silhouettes crept soundlessly from the treeline then, rifles ready, moving toward the column. Goodrich felt his eyebrows raise and pointed his M-16. Burgie pressed the rifle back into the rice.

“Take it easy, Senator. That's Cat Man.”

Cat Man set his team in at the edge of the treeline and moved to a low dike where Snake and Hodges were kneeling. He knelt next to them, pushed his helmet back, and leaned over. He addressed Snake, ignoring Hodges.