Fields of Fire (14 page)

9

Finally, after three weeks, a platoon sergeant.

A Staff Sergeant. A Marine who had experienced the Corps before Vietnam filled its ranks with crass, uncaring civilians. Someone who had known parade fields, barracks that shone with polish and pride, firm-faced men older than their years who starched their utilities, shined their boots, and shaved their heads.

Into the chaos of forgotten formalities and jungle sores came Angus Austin. He appeared as the company was setting into the dust and ash of a new perimeter. The resupply helicopter dropped its netted load of food and ammunition, then touched briefly on the earth and excreted three men. And in five minutes the Third Herd had a new Papa Sierra. Like it or not.

He was a humorless, dry-voiced man, old for thirty-one, who had left a small town in Appalachian Pennsylvania, where his father was a high-school janitor, and had given the Marine Corps all of his thirteen adult years. He had enlisted after Korea, and was hopelessly frozen into the rank of Sergeant until Vietnam enlarged the Corps. To be a Staff NCO had been Angus Austin's dream. To make Gunnery Sergeant was little more than a wish.

But not beyond hope. He reported to Hodges, his thick hulk sweating profusely in the late afternoon heat, peppery cheeks coarse with a five o'clock shadow that made them appear darker than his shaved head, and dropped his Army rucksack into the dirt. The pack, which was considered too large and cumbersome by most Marines, bulged with unnecessary gear. It was Hodges’ first warning that Austin was not a bush Marine.

Austin extended his hand. “Staff Sergeant Austin, Lieutenant. I'm your new platoon sergeant.” Austin surveyed the platoon lines, where Marines were digging fighting holes into the latest perimeter. “What the Gunny says, this platoon hasn't had a real Papa Sierra in a long damn time.”

“Well, no.” Hodges scrutinized the stocky, frowning man. “Not a staff NCO, anyway.” Hodges grinned. “Where the hell have all the Staffs been hiding?”

“Lieutenant, we all did this once already. That's where we been hiding. We were here in ’65 and ’66, when these kids were still in school.”

“Where were you?”

Austin turned around. “Sir?”

“In ’65?”

“Da Nang.” Austin did a short stroll, a nervous pace in front of Hodges. “I landed with the Ninth Marines.”

“What was your job?”

Austin appeared a tad embarrassed. “I was Police Sergeant at the air base. I was in charge of the administrative integrity of the perimeter.”

Hodges chuckled. “You mean you supervised trash pickups?”

“Well, not only that, Sir.” Austin had taken on a wounded, irritated look. “But what the Gunny says, you haven't had a real platoon sergeant down here in months. I hear you're new. Now, don't you worry, Lieutenant. We'll get this platoon squared away in no time. Is there anything the Lieutenant wants me to work on right away?”

“No …”

“Well, I know what we have to deal with. These people who end up in the grunts. Lieutenant, you wouldn't have believed the Corps before this Vietnam shit.” Austin had sat down across from Hodges, and was taking out various comforts from his pack. His eyes had a nostalgic look. “Man couldn't have a goddamn parking ticket and get in the Corps before Vietnam. You wouldn't have believed the inspections we had, Lieutenant. And the discipline. A man couldn't even talk to his Lieutenant without going through the chain of command. A Lieutenant was God.”

“Well, I'd just as soon do without all that, Sarge—”

“We'll have 'em treating you right in no time, sir.”

“They already treat me right, Sarge.”

Austin smiled comfortingly to Hodges. “Lieutenant, you don't know how to be treated right until you've had a proper Papa Sierra. In all due respect. Now I've heard you're a damn good Lieutenant, that you know your tactics and your supporting arms. The Gunny told me that, not five minutes ago. Sir. And I intend to make this a platoon you can be proud of.”

“I'm already proud of it, Sarge. Hey.” Hodges shrugged helplessly, smiling in mild bewilderment. “I can't handle all that. I'm a civilian, Sarge.” Austin squinted at the heresy. “I'm just a damn civilian playing Marine for a couple years because there's a war. Know what I mean?” Hodges gestured out toward the lines. “So are they, most of them. Civilians, you know? A bunch of kids who got caught up in all the bullshit. They don't know a request mast from a walk in the woods. The only dress parade they'll ever be in was when they graduated from boot camp.” Hodges grinned, pondering Austin's overstuffed rucksack. “Don't get me wrong. They know the bush, and they can buckle for your dust, Sarge. But don't turn them all around with that stateside shit.”

Austin drew out a cigarette and studied his new platoon commander with a mix of disbelief and antagonism. He dragged several times on his cigarette, stunned speechless. His brows furrowed as he mulled Hodges’ remarks. Finally, he formulated a response. “Lieutenant. I'm a Marine. Every ounce of me. This is my Corps, and it always will be, and I can't stop being a Marine. And they're Marines. Whether it's for five minutes or fifty years. In all due respect, that is. And if a Marine is out of uniform, or he didn't shave, or he's disrespectful, then it would hurt me to my goddamn heart not to straighten the man out. You can't ask me to do that, Lieutenant. You can't ask me not to do the best job I know how.”

It was Hodges’ turn to be speechless. He lit a Marlboro, thinking of Snake's usual jest to nonsmokers (we are all sucking wind out here). He knew that Austin would take a complaint to the company Gunnery Sergeant, who would in turn inform the company commander, and that he would get an early reputation for running an undisciplined platoon. That would mean trouble for every platoon member from other staff NCOs. He was also confused and somehow moved by Austin's emotional defense of the Corps.

“No. I can't. But Sarge, I want you to know what my priorities are. What's important. We're all Marines. I'm sorry. I didn't mean that like you took it. But it's a different Corps out here.” Austin's face set stubbornly, disagreeing.

Hodges continued. “Out here uniforms aren't important. And when's a man gonna get a haircut, for Christ's sake? The company's been out here fifty days, now.” Austin reached into his rucksack and displayed a set of manual hair clippers. Hodges shook his head in disbelief. “All right. There are ways. But clean weapons are more important. And digging deep holes. Staying spread out on patrol. Carrying the right gear.”

Austin waited for another second, as if he believed Hodges would add to the list if enough time lapsed. Then he stood slowly, dusting off the seat of his trousers. “Aye, aye, sir. But begging the Lieutenant's pardon, the other things are important, too. Like General Westwood says, ‘You show me a trashy perimeter and I'll show you a lousy fighting unit.’ General Westwood relieves company commanders who have trashy perimeters.”

Hodges gave up. Austin would learn in time, he hoped. Or maybe, just maybe, he would become convinced by Austin. “All right, Sarge. Who am I to argue with General Westwood? But it isn't as important as the other stuff.”

Austin appeared vindicated. “Begging the Lieutenant's pardon, sir, it all goes together. Now. With the Lieutenant's permission, I think I'll go check the lines.”

Austin walked immediately to Snake's portion of the platoon lines. Snake was digging in with Cat Man's team, which was the squad's middle position. The men were rotating their digging tasks, and Snake and Phony were lying back on their packs, resting, as Cat Man and Cannonball dug inside the holes. All four men were smoking and talking in the easy, relaxed manner of a close-knit family.

Austin stood before Snake. He wore no rank insignia, having left his flak jacket, which had small, black Staff Sergeant's stripes on the pocket, at the platoon command post. He fixed brooding eyes on Snake and Phony and placed his hands on his hips, staring coldly at them as if he expected them to stand at attention. Then he nodded slightly, in what appeared to be mild disgust.

“And what are you two up to?”

Neither man had ever seen Austin, or heard that the platoon had a new Platoon Sergeant. They glanced con-spiratorially at each other. Phony smiled with angelic innocence. “Why? You know something better to do?”

Austin scrutinized Phony with a dark glare. “Yeah. I can think of a lot of better things to do. Like picking up trash at the Da Nang brig.”

Phony's eyes brightened.
“Da Nang!
Did this dude say he could get us to Da Nang? Oh, Christ, I don't know what the hell I got to do to get there, but let me know, man. Get me out of here!”

The others howled, even as Austin's face grew livid. Snake watched the new Platoon Sergeant's hands clench and loosen, and he cut short his laugh, attempting to attract Phony's attention. Snake had an antenna for trouble, and he suddenly realized that Austin was capable of producing it.

But Austin had already turned to Cannonball, who was standing knee-deep in the hole he had been digging, laughing mightily at Phony's humor. “You! Black Marine. Where's your fields of fire?”

Cannonball started for a quick moment at what he believed to be a slur, then regained his amused grin, and glanced out across the rippling paddy to his front. “Aw, everywhere, man.”

Austin continued, bolstered by this first direct response. “What do you mean, ‘everywhere’? Where's your PDF?”

Cannonball scratched his head, squinting. “Say wha-a-at?”

“Your PDF. Principle Direction of Fire. Don't you have a PDF?”

Cannonball waved a lithe arm at Austin, ignoring Snake's attempt to silence him. “Awww, ma-a-an. Don't give me none of that boot-camp shit. You ever been overrun? We don't shoot no ‘principle direction’ man, we shoot gooks.”

Snake finally was able to position himself between Austin and the others. He smiled a conciliatory grin. “Hey, listen. I don't know who you are but—”

“Who the hell are you?”

“I'm the squad leader here. Now—”

“Well, I'm Staff Sergeant Austin, your new Platoon Sergeant, and you piss me off.”

Behind Austin, Cannonball dropped his entrenching tool and covered his head. Cat Man and Phony stood mute. Snake shrugged gamely, eyeing Austin with a tiny smile. “Hey, look, Sarge. The men were only having some fun. You know how it gets out here. Same old faces every day—”

“Well, I'm glad you all like fun, because now we're going to have some real fun. You think you should be treated different from other Marines just because you're getting shot at every now and then? Well, this shit stops today.”

Austin turned back to Phony, still seething from his disrespect. “Get rid of that skivvy shirt.”

Phony looked down. The skivvy shirt was among his most prized possessions. There was a large peace symbol on the front, with ACID written over the top of it. On the back was a crazed gargoyle head, its tongue hanging out, with FUCK YOU written over it. Some magic-marker genius in the company rear at An Hoa had customized the boring, combat-green for Phony.

Phony brought his hands to his chest, stroking the shirt, still grinning innocently. “Get rid of it?”

“That's right. You're wearing a uniform, Marine. You don't rate customizing it. Get rid of it.”

Phony shrugged Austin off. “I ain't got another one, anyway.”

Austin walked quickly to his gear at the command post and returned in moments, holding a bright green skivvy shirt, never worn. He walked ceremoniously up to Phony, who was digging inside the fighting hole, and grabbed his customized shirt in the back, ripping it off him, “surveying” it in the fashion of training-unit inspections when a hole was discovered in an article of clothing.

Phony had reached for Austin's hand, but missed. He darkened in his only display of deep anger since he had joined the squad. He tenderly removed the remains of the shirt from his neck, still staring ominously at Austin. Then, in mere seconds, he regained the innocent, acquiescent smile.

“You can't do that. You shouldn't have done that.” “Well, I already did. Didn't I?” Austin peered at all of them. “We're going into the Bridge in a couple days. It'll be tighten-up time, girls. We're gonna square you all away.”

10

The brown emerged from the western mountains, curled lazily in two separate streaks that marked the Arizona Valley's perimeter, then met in a wider, swifter gash that straightened out the curls and dashed along miles of sand and paddies in a deep rush to meet the distant sea. Just where the rivers met, one wade away from the implacable Arizona, was the Liberty Bridge compound.

Hodges looked at it as the company moved along the eastern banks of the Arizona, preparing to wade the northern river just above where the two rivers joined. He had never been to Liberty Bridge, except for his brief ride through it on the incoming convoy, but he had listened to his platoon members chatter about its desirable qualities for a week. The Bridge was a skating place, they had all agreed. Hot chow. Few dangerous patrols. Daily baths in the crystal currents of the river. Tents and cots. Sit-down shitters. Skate City.

The company waded toward the northern compound, on the more peaceful Dai Loc side of the river. It was a small perimeter, manned by two platoons from a grunt company, plus the mortar and command sections of the company. Its major function was to provide security for the two convoys that gathered on the northern shore on their way from Da Nang to An Hoa each day, waiting to cross the river. The mile-long, dust-spewing, raging mix of tanks and amphtracs and trucks had to cross the river, one vehicle at a time, on a small, line-pulled barge.

Because the Bridge compound did not have a bridge. Actually, it had two, neither of which functioned. Hodges stood on the red cut of convoy road next to the northern compound and examined them both close up for the first time.

The Old Bridge was a memory of blackened poles that reached fifty feet into empty air, topless but for a few charcoal cross beams. The French had built it decades ago, along with a railroad bridge five miles downstream on Go Noi Island, in order to open An Hoa Basin to commerce. Hodges had heard the story of the French efforts, and seen the vestiges of their attempts, during his earlier wanderings near the An Hoa combat base. In addition to marketing the rice, he had learned, the French had discovered coal at the Basin's western edge, just at the base of one jutting cliff, and had begun a coal community. They had also built a brick factory near what was now the outer perimeter of the combat base, turning what was now only claydust, clouds of powder in the air, into building blocks.

The Viet Cong had destroyed both bridges in the mid-1960s as a part of their “grass roots” campaign to isolate the Basin's villagers from the Saigon government. Hodges thought of the desolate Arizona villages he had just left, with their concrete wells that were evidence of attention somewhere in their hopeless past. The grass-roots campaign was a winner, he mused. And government “officials,” the ones who dealt with Americans as “village chiefs,” now did so from faraway Da Nang, sometimes venturing into An Hoa for brief, daylight visits.

Hodges remembered seeing the local “District Chief” appear in An Hoa while he was waiting to report to the company. The chief had landed at the airstrip in his own airplane. His wife was in a flowing ao dai. If they had wandered on the other side of An Hoa's barbed wire, Hodges grinned ironically, they wouldn't have lasted five minutes. Grass roots. The coal mine was clogged with booby traps. The brick factory sat under clouds of clay-dust. The Old Bridge loomed as the symbol of the Basin's isolation.

Hodges and his platoon left the convoy road and walked the concrete foundation of the second bridge, on their way to the southern compound. Seabees worked busily, occasionally glancing at the string of dirty, un-shaved grunts who shambled by.

The Powers That Were had euphemistically christened the new bridge Liberty Bridge. It was low, made of concrete, and as yet incapable of supporting the convoy. The Seabees had been working doggedly on it for several months, in an effort to once again link the Basin with the Other World. Once completed, it would sink under the monsoon currents of the joined rivers for two months of the year, but for the other ten months, the Basin would be privy to communication with the rest of Vietnam. Or so the Americans hoped.

They left the new bridge and walked toward the southern compound. A truck lumbered past them, covering Hodges with a veil of red dirt. He swore at the driver, spitting dirt from his mouth. For that moment, he felt privileged and awesome, a grunt returning to a safer haven.

He strode up a sharp hill. The southern compound sprawled before him. Properly termed the Bridge compound, it was a complete combat base, the only permanent base in the Basin other than An Hoa, some seven miles of ribbon road away. It sat on top of a large J-shaped hill that was eight hundred meters long and four hundred meters wide at the bottom of the J. It was the focal point for the operation of an entire infantry battalion, in addition to providing security for the convoy.

Hodges and his platoon walked the road into the compound. Reams of barbed wire and rolls of concertina reached down the hill on both sides of them. Inside the compound, Hodges noticed the dozen artillery pieces on the right side of the road, inside circular parapets. He passed a cluster of 81-millimeter mortar pits. There was a sandbagged chapel, next to a similarly sandbagged command operations center bunker. He entered a long road lined by dust-reddened tents, passed sandbagged bunkers, some positioned with 106-millimeter recoilless rifles, long and black and ugly, and .50-caliber machine guns. At the end of the road there was a high wooden observation tower. Jeeps and mechanical mules shot busily past him, covering him and the others with more of the red dirt that had claimed every fixed object on the hill, making every tent and sandbag as natural to the barren plateau as sagebrush on a prairie.

The Bridge. All ri-i-ight! He found the tents assigned to his platoon and settled them in. They were by themselves. He felt mildly honored that, with only a month in Vietnam, his company commander had trusted him to have the Bridge security platoon. The rest of the company would man the northern perimeter. Hodges’ platoon would augment the defense that was shared primarily between his battalion's Headquarters and Supply Company and the Artillery Battery across the road.

LATER that afternoon the company gathered in a weary, undisciplined clump in front of the Bridge compound's chapel. A dozen rifles were jammed by their bayonets into the red dirt, a rigid row of memories. A dirty, stubbled figure stood behind each rifle, holding a helmet. The battalion Chaplain read a name off of a piece of paper, and then chanted hauntingly, “Killed in Action.” He did it twelve times. Each time, one dirty figure stepped forward and put a helmet on a rifle butt.

Goodrich sat in the dust that surrounded the sandbagged chapel, watching Cat Man solemnly place a helmet on a rifle. Shag. New dudes together. Shared awe in An Hoa. Coming to the bush on the same day. Sharing the delusion that the fresh, the combat-innocent, would be the last to die, hearing the stories but not really accepting that a man could endure all the training, all the tension, all the distances and culture warps only to die before he had had a chance to suffer.

Then, a few days earlier, on an uneventful security patrol, all delusions ending with two rapid cracks from an invisible, ubiquitous sniper rifle that caught Shag just below the ear, a perfect shot, as he sat smiling on a mound of earth while Cat Man's team checked out a nearby hootch. Eight hundred yards of open paddy to Shag's back, miles of wispy treeline near and far. They were nowhere. They were everywhere. Goodrich had been talking to Shag when the rounds went off. It seemed impossible. They were everywhere.

It was beginning to make less and less sense. Mark was beginning to make more and more sense. You just wander around trying to kill them until they kill you, he mused. Where the hell is the sense in that? It's insane.

All helmets were on the rifles. The Chaplain said a prayer. His voice was high and nasal. He spoke with a dry-throated Texas drawl. He sounded, thought Goodrich, as if he really believed there was a God.

Dear Lord, whose wisdom surpasses all understanding …

Goodrich turned to Ottenburger, next to him, and hoarse-whispered, “I just can't justify it.”

Burgie shrugged. “So, who asked you to?”

… who so unselfishly laid down their lives for a greater good, a good which only You have a true …

“Don't get uptight, Senator. Won't change a goddamn thing.”

Bagger was on the other side of Burgie. “Number Ten. I quit, man. I can't keep watching this.”

… we ask You to look kindly on these young souls who have so recently joined You, fresh from the tribulations of an effort that is to Your greater glory …

Bagger grimaced. “Lord forgive me, but that man gives me the creeps. I keep wondering who gets the honor of being next.”

Burgie nudged him. “Shut up. Don't even talk about that.”

… who gave their lives so that other men might live in freedom. Amen.

Bagger peered at the Chaplain. Fresh clothes, un-scarred boots, rolls of fat beneath his chin, a natural repository that seemed drained from the flabby face. “Well, what the hell does he know about it?” He fretted absently to himself, too numb to feel true repulsion. “Get some for God.”

Goodrich was encouraged by Bagger. He leaned in front of Burgie, anxious to communicate. He felt deeply troubled. “It makes me believe in the randomness of things. Like existentialism. Suffering without meaning, except in the suffering itself.”

Bagger nudged Ottenburger. “What the hell is Shit-head talking about?”

“School.”

The regimental commander joined the Chaplain. He had journeyed from An Hoa in a command and control helicopter, which waited like a setting hen on the small landing pad at the base of the hill. Bagger grimaced at the Colonel with a mix of disaffection and fear. He spoke with a tinge of awe. “Look at that man up there. He's got more power over me than God. To hell with the preacher. Somebody better run up there and kiss his ass before he sends us back into the Arizona.”

The Colonel stood starched and green and clean beside the row of dangling helmets, looking down at the clump of hollow, weathered faces.

… I want you to know how proud I am of the way you men have been fighting. Operation Allegheny Forest was a complete success …

“Goo-o-oood,” drawled Burgie in a hoarse whisper. “Maybe he'll make a General now.”

… five hundred eighty enemy killed….

“And he's never seen a fucking body.” Burgie again.

Goodrich joined him. “Why doesn't he talk about how many Marines were screwed up?”

Bagger nudged them both. “You guys shut up about my Colonel. You wanna get us court-martialed?”

… three hundred ten individual weapons …

Burgie persisted, the long face smirking. “It's the truth.”

“Then think it. Shut up.”

… always terrible when a man dies, but I want you to know …

“What does he know about it?”

“He fought in World War Two, probably Korea.”

Burgie grunted, unconvinced. “What's he done lately?”

… First Battalion continues to lead the way. I've recommended you for another Meritorious Unit Citation.

Burgie smiled again, allowing it to melt into a sardonic grin. “Get some for the Colonel.”

Goodrich agreed. He leaned forward, his fat face intense. “That's it, you see. When meaning becomes purely personal, so does glory. No great cause. It makes less and less sense.”

Bagger leaned forward, his face suddenly lit. “Wait a minute! Did you hear that? We're up for a Meritorious Unit, man!” The ceremony was over. He stood and walked away. “God damn. An MUC.”

WATERBULL was back. He walked slowly down the scrape of road along one finger of the compound, counting tents. Dude said five tents on the left. Right here. He pulled the tent flap and entered the musty oven heat, blinking his eyes after the white-bright of noonbake, then focused and grinned. His faceful of farm-boy freckles danced in the dark. There he is. He crept to the cot and tipped it effortlessly, dropping Snake onto the pallet-box floor.

“Wake up, you little shit!”

Snake crouched quickly, dwarfed by the massive redhead, then smiled and popped him on the chest. “You ugly mother! Thought you'd died of the clap!”

Waterbull chuckled. “Hell, I almost did. How come you're not at the service?”

Snake scowled. “I don't go to those things, you know that. I don't like talking about dead people. What good does it do to talk about it? Won't change it. They didn't die for any goddamn Colonel.”

Waterbull sat on a cot, dropping his pack and rifle onto the floor. “Colonel's a good head, Snake. Gave me a ride out here on his chopper. Came down to the LOC and said, ‘Who's going to the Bridge?’ and took us with him. Me and another dude.” Waterbull pulled out a cigarette. “Besides. You better get yourself used to Colonels, being a lifer and all.”

“Oh, bite my ass.”

“Yes, sir. You are going to be a lifer. Back here ten years from now on your fourth tour, some kind of beer-drinking Gunny. ‘The war must go on, says Gunny.’ ”

“Yeah, and you'll be back on your farm, telling war stories, if you can get anybody to listen. Hey. What the hell are you smoking?”

Waterbull grinned pleasantly. “Good stuff. Wanna run one?”

“You trying to get me in trouble? You know I don't smoke in the bush.”

Waterbull held it in, then grinned. “This ain't the bush. This is the Bridge, man.” He took another hit.

Snake checked his watch: ten-thirty. “Oh, all right. It's been a long goddamn month, I shit you not.” He took a deep hit, leaning back on the cot.

Waterbull was already high. It was his third joint that day. He slid out of his flak jacket. “Lots of dudes gone, huh?”

Snake nodded. Screw this, he thought. “Gimme my own.” Waterbull complied. He took two deep drags. He could feel it already. “Hey. This is good stuff, Bull. Number One.”

“Got it in Da Nang.” Bull languished on the cot. “How's the new Lieutenant?”

“A grit. He burned Corky's boot.”

“What?”

“Remember Corky?” Snake felt good, relaxed. He smiled. The top of his head began to tingle. “Good old Lieutenant Corky. Lost his leg, man. I had to check his balls.”