Sally Boy (19 page)

Sal scanned the sky and noticed that several
fixed-wing aircraft were coming in at too much of a direct angle to
First Platoon’s position. Fearing that the pilots would drop their
ordinates too early, and that they might strike the American
troops, Sal hollered, “Hey Bobby, those guys, they’re bringing it
in pretty damn close. Call’em off to our whiskey right now!”

“No problem, Sal. This is Charlie Three to
Squadron Leader. Charlie Three to Squadron Leader, over”

“Charlie Three this is Squadron Leader,
‘Silk Daddy,’ over.”

“Silk Daddy, this is Charlie Three. We need
your two approaching aircraft from the North to pull off about a
hundred yards to our whiskey. They’re bringing it in a little too
tight, over.”

“Charlie Three, that’s me and my wing-man
you’re referring to. We see your smoke and we have those little
people in sight. We are adjusting to target, over.”

Skillfully, the pilots performed a left
banking maneuver allowing the streaking fighter-bombers to drop
their napalm and white-phosphorous directly onto the NVA forces.
The jungle burst into flames and all that could be heard were the
blood-curdling screams of burning enemy soldiers. Eventually the
giant blaze receded into small scattered brush fires and the
distressing shrieks of anguish faded to a smoldering silence.

“Damn, that was some good flying! Tell that
son-of-a-bitch drinks are on us,” Sal yelled, excitedly.

“Silk Daddy, beers are on us! Thanks,
over.”

“Charlie Three, glad to be of service. Oh,
by the way, I was just wondering if you guys know where you
are.”

Bobby shrugged, “Vietnam?”

“That’s a negative, Charlie Three. You’re in
Cambodia, over.”

“What the fuck are we doing in Cambodia?”
Sal asked, confused.

“I got no fucking idea. But with that
asshole Symonds in charge, we’re lucky we’re not in China.” Talking
back into his handset Bobby continued, “Silk Daddy, this is Charlie
Three. We are aware of our position. Have a safe trip home,
over.”

Before disengaging, the two aircraft circled
First Platoon’s position one last time. “Charlie Three, this is
Silk Daddy, just an FYI. Last intelligence I saw showed the enemy
had a heavy troop build-up on the border. You boys might wanna
think about making a hasty departure at your earliest convenience,
over.”

“Silk Daddy, this is Charlie Three, roger
that. Thanks for the help, out.”

Spotting Angel on a hill near his position,
Sal tapped Bobby on his shoulder. “Follow me!”

Amidst a hail of bullets, the two men
sprinted over to Angel’s position. Firing back as he ran, Sal
peppered the surrounding jungle. Cowering behind a large dirt
mound, Angel lay motionless. Dropping down right next to him, Sal
hollered angrily, “Why ain’t you firing, asshole?”

“Sal, are you fucking crazy! What the fuck
are you doing?”

“I’m saving your ass again, you stupid
bastard. Fire your fucking weapon!”

Angel held his weapon away from his body and
fired it indiscriminately down range, blindly spraying whatever was
in front of him.

Sal laughed. “You’d think by the way they’re
shooting at you, Charlie must know you’re Puerto Rican.”

“Yeah, well, if I’m gonna die, I’m glad it’s
gonna be with your crazy ass.”

“Oh yeah, why is that?”

“’Cause if we’re going to hell, I bet you’ll
know where to get the best pizza.”

Sal smiled. “You got that right.”

Foolishly, Angel rose up to fire his weapon
and took an enemy round in his left upper chest. The force of the
round knocked him to the ground. Clutching his wound, Angel yelled,
“I’m hit, Sal!”

Reacting quickly, Sal tore open a bandage
and pressed it down on the bullet hole. “Medic! Medic!” he screamed
loudly.

Angel coughed and some blood came out of his
mouth and trickled down his chin. “Sal, am I gonna be awright?”

Forcing a smile, Sal responded, “You’re
gonna be fine. Don’t worry about it. I’ve seen plenty of guys worse
off than you make it. You’re good to go.”

The Medic arrived, sweating profusely and
covered in the blood of other wounded soldiers. Dropping down to
his knees, he removed Sal’s bandage and inspected the severity of
the wound. “Holy fuck!”

“Is it that bad?” Angel asked meekly.

“No, it’s not bad at all.” Firing a
disapproving look at the Medic, Sal instructed his friend, “Just
lie there and be quiet so he can fix you.”

The Medic removed a small plastic bag
containing a needle and tore it open. Discarding the cap, he jabbed
Angel’s leg, administering morphine for the pain, and then covered
the wound with a large bandage.

“I didn’t even get a chance to shoot up
today. What a fucking bummer. This shit hurts like a
motherfucker.”

“Don’t talk, man. Save your strength.” Sal
turned to Bobby and shouted, “Get me a fucking medevac! Now!”

“Charlie Six this is Charlie Three. We need
a medevac at coordinates 09er326, over.” Listening momentarily,
Bobby looked to Sal. “We got one on the way.”

“Sal, you ain’t gonna forget me? Are
you?”

“Hell no! We’re fucking brothers,
remember?”

“Yeah, brothers!” Angel stammered, forcing a
smile.

“Angel, you gotta hold on. Okay?”

Sal watched as the medevac touched down in a
nearby clearing. Swiftly, he and the medic loaded Angel onto the
Huey. Angel reached up and held Sal’s hand tightly. “I guess this
is it, hermano.”

“Angel, you gotta fight if you wanna live.
Show me somea that Spanish Harlem toughness you’re always bragging
about.”

Angel laughed and more blood spurted from
his mouth.

“Don’t give up! Awright. I’ll see you soon.
Don’t worry about it!” Slapping the side of the Huey, Sal screamed
to the pilot, “Get him the fuck outta here!”

The pilot nodded and the Huey lifted-off.
Tears welled in Sal’s eyes as he watched his friend being
air-lifted out with what could only be a fatal wound. Gradually,
Sal shifted his focus from the sky back down to the battle raging
around him. In a surreal moment, the sounds of war fell silent, and
all Sal could see were some patches of white smoke shaped like men
slowly drift across the battlefield. Images of his friend, Adam,
the three soldiers shot by the Vietnamese boy, and the fear on
Angel’s face flashed through his mind. Wiping his tears, Sal
gritted his teeth and took off running toward the enemy. Firing his
weapon wildly, Sal screamed, “Motherfuckers!”

The enemy returned fire, squeezing off round
after round at the foolish American sprinting toward them.
Miraculously, as if protected by some unseen force, Sal didn’t get
hit. Bullets whistled by him only narrowly missing their mark.
Running right up on the enemy’s position, Sal jumped into their
foxhole and shot everyone in it. Five men lay dead on the ground.
Three more NVA soldiers jumped into the foxhole. Battling them
hand-to-hand, Sal managed to wrestle them to the ground and draw
his bayonet from its sheath. Slicing one man’s throat, Sal then
killed another by ramming the long blade through his chest. Sal
then picked up an AK-47 and he riddled the last man’s body with
bullets. “You killed Angel. You killed him!” Sal screamed as he
continued to shoot up the bodies.

Jumping into the hole, Bobby snuck up on Sal
from behind and grabbed him in a bear hug. “Sal, they’re dead!
They’re all fucking dead.”

In one swift move, Sal broke free from
Bobby’s grasp. Spinning around, Sal raised the weapon up and
pointed it directly at Bobby’s face. “Don’t shoot!” Bobby yelled,
fearfully.

Breathing heavily and covered from head to
toe in the blood of the men he just massacred, Sal muttered
dangerously, “Don’t ever fucking do that again!”

“You got it, Sal!” Lowering his hands, Bobby
smartly jumped out of the foxhole, putting some distance between
himself and Sal.

The devastating air strike, coupled with
Sal’s fearless attack, served to stymie the enemy’s resolve. The
remaining enemy forces scattered into the jungle and the fighting
ceased as suddenly as it began.

Climbing out of the foxhole, Sal took a seat
on the sandbags surrounding it. His thoughts were of Angel and the
look on his face just before the Huey lifted-off. As other soldiers
began to mill around, Sal placed his hands over his face to shield
his sorrow. Like scavengers, the men in his unit rifled through the
uniforms of the dead VC and NVA soldiers searching for documents,
papers, souvenirs, and anything else they thought was of value.

Lieutenant Symonds, a tall, young, thin
twenty-one-year-old kid fresh out of R.O.T.C. approached Sal with a
big shit-eating grin on his face. “Scalise, that was one of the
stupidest acts of bravery I’ve witnessed since I came to this
God-forsaken place. I can’t believe you’re not KIA after that
stunt.”

Dropping his hands, Sal fired a deadly stare
at Symonds.

“I’m gonna put you in for a commendation as
soon as we get back to base camp. If I had two Battalions of men
like you, Scalise, I could win this war myself. You really are one
crazy fucking grease-ball.”

“What the fuck did you just call me?”

“I didn’t mean anything by that, Scalise.
I...I heard Sergeant Beckman call you much worse!”

Now frightened, Symonds took several steps
backwards as Sal slowly moved toward him. “I’m an officer! You
don’t want to get into any trouble. Do you?” Symonds pleaded
frantically.

“You’re the one that’s in trouble!” Lunging
at the Lieutenant, Sal seized him around the throat, and wrestled
him down into the foxhole. Out of sight from the other men, all the
overmatched Symonds could do was faintly call out, “Somebody, help
me! Please!” While Symonds lay on the ground, Sal continued to
pummel the defenseless officer. Sal rose to his feet and kicked him
several times in his ribs with his blood-soaked boots. Amused by
the spectacle, other soldiers amassed around the foxhole. Finally,
Bobby jumped back into the hole and pulled Sal off of the
Lieutenant. “Sal, that’s enough! He’s had enough!”

Symonds lay on the ground unconscious,
covered in his own blood. Still fired-up, Sal paced in the hole
ranting, “It’s not enough! He’s getting good men wasted, like Angel
and Adam, ’cause he’s fucking stupid! You hear what I’m saying?
It’s not enough!”

Stepping down into the foxhole, Sergeant
Beckman wisely positioned himself between Sal and the Lieutenant.
Hunching over his body, Beckman checked Symonds injuries. With
little sympathy for the young officer, Beckman pointed out, “Maybe
it’s not enough, Scalise. But you ain’t gonna hit the LT anymore.
You put it on him pretty good. He ain’t ever gonna forget this
day.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say.” Climbing
back out of the foxhole, Sal started to collect his belongings.

Glaring up at the men standing around
watching, Beckman yelled, “Get the fucking medic over here. The LT
needs attention.” Pointing out two specific individuals, he
ordered, “I need you two men to carry the Lieutenant to the LZ.
We’ll deal with this shit when we get back to base camp. Listen up,
police up all your shit, and don’t leave nothing for the gooks. We
got choppers coming in to get us the fuck outta here. Let’s move,
motherfuckers!”

Scrambling to gather up their weapons, ammo,
and anything of value to the enemy, First Platoon hastily trekked
to the LZ. They loaded back onto the choppers and the American
forces were gone in minutes. All that remained to tell the tale of
the battle and the bloodshed were the scarred landscape and the
small brush fires still burning in the jungle.

* * * * *

A sign on the front of an unassuming
two-story brick edifice that looked more like an office building
than a Military Prison announced, “STOCKADE.” Inside one of the
many cells, Sal sat on a bunk smoking a cigarette with his feet up
on an old wooden chair. The cage was drab and sterile with a view
of nothing but the row of steel bars of the empty cells across from
him.

Entering the confinement area, a guard
unlocked the barred door for a man dressed in light-colored
civilian clothes and carrying a file. The curious stranger was
well-built, better than average looking, six-foot tall, clean
shaven, with short grayish hair, steely blue eyes, and a pale
complexion. Locking Sal’s cell door behind him, the guard then left
the area.

“Scalise, my name is Wilson,” the man said
cordially, offering his hand.

Sal walked past him.

Feeling snubbed, Wilson muttered,
“Okay?”

“Are you my lawyer?” Sal inquired angrily as
he paced from one end of the cell to the other.

“No, I’m not your lawyer.”

“Then what the fuck do you want?”

Taking a seat on the chair, Wilson opened
the file and looked it over. “I see here you like to hit
officers?”

“Are you an officer?” Sal taunted.

“No.”

“Then what the fuck do you want from
me?”

“You know, you probably would’ve gotten a
medal for what you did out in the field that day. I gotta tell you,
it was pretty damn heroic. Instead, you’re going to prison. Quite a
turn of events, huh?”

“Who the fuck are you, man?”

“Who I am isn’t important right now. All I
want to know from you is this...do you want to go to prison?”

“What kind of a stupid fucking question is
that?” Sal fired back as he drew a lighter and a pack of cigarettes
from his pocket. Lighting the cigarette, he continued to pace
back-and-forth like a caged animal.

“It’s a simple question. Even a dumb fuck
like you can answer it,” Wilson responded in a relaxed tone.

Flicking the cigarette through the bars down
onto the floor, Sal slowly moved behind Wilson. “Are you fucking
crazy? You come into my cell and start fucking with me, knowing I
got nothing to lose if I crack your fucking skull wide open.”