Sally Boy (17 page)

Soldiers fired their M-16s and threw
grenades at what appeared to be enemy positions ahead in the brush.
The M-60 gunner lit up the jungle with three-second bursts of
suppressive fire, as bullets and tracer rounds ricocheted off rocks
and trees. There was a great deal of shouting, smoke, and
confusion. The ground shook from the continuous pounding of the
mortar rounds. Fearful shouts of “Medic! Medic!” sounded out from
every wounded G.I.

Enemy shells exploded all around the
American forces. Bodies of young soldiers were ripped apart by
direct hits. The lower portion of a human leg, boot still attached,
landed several feet from Angel. He stared at the dismembered limb,
its shinbone and calf bone protruding. “We gotta get the fuck outta
here, man! I don’t wanna die! Not in this fucking place!” Angel
shrieked.

Stupidly, Angel tried to get up, prompting
Sal to secure him in a choke hold. Gasping for breath, Angel
desperately tugged at the forearm. Sal slightly eased his grip and
yelled, “Just relax! This is war, motherfucker! If you can survive
this, you can survive anything.”

Crouching behind a tree several meters away
was Sergeant Beckman. Snatching the handset from the radio
operator, Beckman hollered, “Get Six on the line!” Trying to talk
over the raging battle, the sergeant urgently shouted into the
handset. “Charlie Six, this is Charlie Three. We’re pinned down and
are under an enemy mortar attack. We need a priority fire mission
now, over.”

“Charlie Three this is Charlie Six. What are
your fire mission coordinates, over?”

Scanning his map, Beckman relayed the
enemy’s position. “Charlie Six this is Charlie Three. Fire mission
coordinates are 76359er. I say again, 76359er, over.”

“Roger that, Charlie Three, 76359er. First
round is on its way. We’ll need you to adjust fire, over.”

“Charlie Six this is Charlie Three, roger
that, over.”

The first artillery round fell farther
behind the enemy’s position than expected. The sergeant shouted
back into the handset, “Charlie Six this is Charlie Three, adjust
fire. Adjust fire. Down fifty, over.”

“Roger that Charlie Three, adjusting fire,
down fifty, over.”

Elated to see the next round fall directly
on the enemy’s position and inflict casualties, Beckman screamed,
“You’re right on ’em! Fire for effect. I say again, fire for
effect!”

“Roger that Charlie Three, fire for effect.
Keep your head down, this is Six, out.”

Tossing the handset back to the radio
operator, Beckman yelled to his men, “Get down! Here it comes!”

American artillery fire relentlessly
pummeled the enemy’s position. The jungle ahead of First Platoon
exploded into flames and fear. Trees were blown out of the ground;
bushes and shrubs were propelled across the jungle like dust in a
wind storm; rocks, small rooted plants, and dirt were shot up high
into the air. Screams of wounded VC and NVA soldiers ascended above
billowy clouds of black smoke.

After fifteen minutes of non-stop shelling
and small arms fire on both sides, the raging battle slowed, then
ceased. As usual, Beckman was the first to his feet, shouting, “All
right assholes, the fun’s over. On your feet. Where’s Doc? We got
men here that need medical attention.”

Platoon Sergeant Donald Beckman was one of
those rare and unique individuals who were truly unforgettable. He
stood six-feet-four and weighed three hundred pounds. A career
soldier, Beckman had a crew-cut, a mischievous grin, dangerous
eyes, and a long scar on the left side of his face. While on leave
in Saigon one night, he got into a fight with a drunken Marine over
one particular young Vietnamese girl in his favorite brothel. When
Beckman turned his head, the angry jar-head broke a beer bottle
across his face giving him the nasty reminder of their encounter.
Ironically, Beckman didn’t seem to care about the scar because he
told anyone who asked that he got it during maneuvers in the “bad
bush.”

Warily emerging from the devastation, the
Platoon gathered its equipment. Handing Beckman several body bags,
the Medic muttered in a subdued tone, “Here you go, Sarge,” and he
knelt down beside a severely injured soldier to treat his wounds.
Beckman in turn gave the bags to another soldier and barked,
“Geraci, bag ’em, and tag ’em! Baginsky, Kelly, grab three FNG’s
and help Geraci carry the dead and wounded. Move assholes!”

As ordered, the men solemnly loaded the
remains of their dead comrades into the thick black plastic bags
and sealed them. Approaching from behind, Beckman slapped Sal on
the back. “Scalise, get on point. Get us the fuck outta here and
watch out for booby traps.” Turning to the other men, the sergeant
yelled, “Let’s move, motherfuckers.”

The jungle was eerily quiet and the distinct
odors of scorched earth, cut leaves, sweat, and gun oil lingered in
the air. Like a jungle cat, Sal maneuvered through the thick brush
until he came across a suspicious spot of green leaves atop a patch
of burnt ground in a clearing.

Raising his clinched fist, the men
immediately stopped and covered. Silently, Sal waved Angel up to
his position. Pointing down to the fresh green leaves, Sal used
only hand gestures to explain that he would lift the greenery and
Angel was to cover him. Nodding he understood, Sal positioned
himself. On the count of three, Sal quickly lifted the foliage.
Jumping up and surprising everyone was a small boy. Startled, Angel
fired off a shot at the boy’s head, but Sal managed to strike the
muzzle of Angel’s M-16 and divert the round.

“Damn Angel! You almost shot the little
guy.”

“Good! What the fuck is he doing here,
anyway?” Angel shouted, shaken.

Having learned to speak Vietnamese fluently
from a Montagnard soldier Sal befriended during his first tour of
duty, he questioned the frightened little boy in his native
language. “Are you all right?”

“My foot hurts,” the boy answered
softly.

Peering down at the foot, Sal could see a
large gash. “Sit down. I’ll take care of it for you.” Kneeling
down, Sal cleaned the boy’s foot using water from his canteen and
an antibacterial agent. Sal then drew a bandage from its pouch and
efficiently dressed the wound.

“What are you doing out here,” Sal asked
curiously.

“I was looking for my dog. I must find him!”
the boy answered, sounding sincere.

“Why were you hiding under the leaves?”

“I was afraid that you might be Vietcong
soldiers.”

“Where do you live?”

The boy pointed east. “I live in the
WatooVillage by the river.”

Sal removed a map from his pack and examined
it. Angered by the delay, Sergeant Beckman moved in on the
situation. “What the fuck’s going on here, Scalise? We need to be
at Check Point Victor Tango in thirty mikes for extraction. What’s
the fucking hold up?”

Trying to impress the sergeant, Angel
sounded out, “We found this little kid. He’s hurt.”

“Nobody’s fucking talking to you, cherry.
I’m talking to him. Scalise, this ain’t no fucking children’s
hospital. Leave the little dink for the rats. Move out.”

“C’mon Beck, he’s all banged up. He lives in
a village about two clicks down river. We’re going right by it. I
can carry him the whole way.”

“Scalise, I always thought you was a badass
from New York. Turns out you’re sweet, like a little flower,”
Beckman mocked, sounding like a little girl. Then his voice became
gruff and amplified, “Carry the little fucker if you wanna. We need
to didi now.” Turning to Angel, Beckman snapped, “Hernandez, you’re
on point. Move your sorry fucking ass troop.”

Scurrying out front of the Platoon, Angel
assumed point. Slinging his M-16 to his pack, Sal scooped up the
boy and carried him in his arms like a bride across the threshold.
After humping several hundred meters, Angel spotted something.
Raising his fist, everyone stopped and covered. Angel waved Sal up
to his position. Laying the boy down on the ground along with his
pack and weapon, Sal drew his .45 from its holster, and quickly
moved up to Angel.

“What do you see?” Sal whispered.

Angel shook his head. “Nothing, forget it. I
thought it was a fucking bunker.”

Suddenly, a burst of automatic gunfire rang
out, followed by a single shot. Racing back to the boy, Sal was
horrified to find three of his fellow soldiers lying dead on the
ground and the boy shot through the head still clutching Sal’s
M-16. “What the fuck happened?”

Rifling through the dead boy’s clothes,
Beckman still held his .45-cal pistol in his hand as smoke rose
from the barrel. The sergeant quickly found enemy documents,
papers, and other intelligence carefully hidden in the boy’s
clothing. “Scalise, I gotta fucking hand it to you. You sure can
pick ’em. This little fucker was a sapper. He must’ve got caught up
in our artillery fire and couldn’t make it back to his tunnel.”

Dropping down to his knees, Sal frantically
checked the fallen men’s vital signs. The sergeant angrily shoved
Sal away from the bodies of the dead soldiers. “Forget ’em asshole.
They’re fucking gone. Scalise, get back on point. And don’t pick up
anymore fucking strays. Doc take care of these poor bastards. I
need people to carry these bodies. Let’s move!”

Sal snatched up his rifle and pack, and
staggered away from the bullet-riddled bodies of his fellow
soldiers, wrongly blaming himself for their deaths.

* * * * *

Sal sat on his bunk gulping scotch from a
bottle while Angel slumped in a chair puffing on a joint. “Hermano,
it’s been two fucking days and you’re still thinking about that
fucking gook kid? The little dink deserved what he got. I only wish
it was me who greased that little cocksucker insteada Beck.”

“Fuck him!” Sal took a long hit from the
joint. “I’m thinking about the poor bastards that got wasted ’cause
I was fucking stupid enough to try and help that little
fucker.”

“Don’t sweat it, homey. Those motherfuckers
was gonna get it sooner or later. This place is a fucking trip,
man. You can’t trust nobody up in this motherfucker. Death’s right
around the corner for all of us, hermano.”

“I heard that.”

Sitting up, Angel took the joint back.
“Hermano, I been thinking about some serious shit lately.”

“Like what?”

“I been thinking about what we should do
when we didi outta this motherfucker. I thought maybe we could go
into business for ourselves. Kinda like the way you and that Jew
was gonna do.”

“Angel, don’t be thinking too much.
Awright?”

“Hold up! You’ve been telling me since I met
you that the smart guys always got a plan. Well, I got a fucking
plan. I know dudes back in Harlem, some real fucking heavy hitters.
And I know that you know your way around the Bronx. I figure we
could set up shop, and go into business for ourselves. We could
make a fucking killing dealing horse back home.”

“All I’m thinking about right now is getting
over to the Lucky Dragon to get me some pussy. We’ve been shooting
up so much lately I ain’t had a woman in months. I’m fucking backed
up.”

“Ain’t you even gonna talk to me about
it?”

“There ain’t nothing to talk about. If we’re
lucky enough to get outta here, I figure you’ll go your way and
I’ll go mine. All that friends-for-life bullshit sounds good in the
movies, but the truth is, it’s a dog-eat-dog motherfucking world.
You ain’t figured that out yet?”

“I see how things is, hermano. I guess after
all the good times we done had, and after all the shit we been
through, I’ll always just be a dumb fucking spic to you.”

Sal laughed. “Angel, what the fuck crawled
up your ass? Chances are, neither one of us is gonna make it outta
this fucking meat grinder in one piece. And I’m telling you just
like a virgin on prom night, we’re gonna end up getting fucked, one
way or another. So stop fucking talking about going home. You’re
gonna fucking jinx us.” Standing, Sal finished off the scotch and
tossed the empty bottle onto his bunk. “I really need to get some
man. So let’s do it to it.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. The funny thing
about pussy is we spend the first nine-months of our lives trying
to get outta it, and the resta our lives trying to get back into
it.”

“Ain’t that the motherfucking truth?”

Stepping out of the tent, Sal and Angel
fleetly covered the distance between their base camp and one of the
most popular brothels in their sector: the Lucky Dragon. Formerly
known as the PierreHotel, the Pierre was once a beautiful, haughty
French hotel. It catered to esteemed French dignitaries, government
leaders, and VIP’s from all over the world. When France pulled out
of Southeast Asia after suffering a humiliating defeat at
Dienbienphu in May of 1954, the proprietor closed its doors for
good. Consequently, he fled Indochina for the safety of Paris,
leaving the hotel to be taken over by the local Vietminh crime
bosses. The elegant locale soon became a place of prostitution,
gambling, and narcotics trafficking.

Entering through the stylish front doors,
Sal and Angel were greeted by an old Vietnamese woman seated behind
what was once the front desk. A crudely stated sign on the wall
above her head read in English: “Over One Million G.I’s Served.”
After collecting their twenty-dollar “entertainment fee,” the woman
directed them to sit in a waiting room.

Several minutes later, a very young,
attractive Vietnamese girl of about sixteen motioned them to follow
her. Leading them down a hall, she stopped in front of two
individual rooms. In broken English, the girl instructed them to
enter their rooms, close the door, and wait.

Swaggering into his room, Angel flashed Sal
an adolescent smile and a thumbs up. Strolling into his, Sal closed
the door, and got comfortable on the bed. Minutes later the door
slowly creaked open and an even younger girl, looking more
Polynesian than Vietnamese, tiptoed into the room dressed in a
seductive teddy. Pin-straight, shoulder-length, shiny black hair
outlined her stunning face. Her exotic dark eyes were accompanied
by an innocent smile, well-developed breasts, and a hard, sexy
body.