Bebop lit up a cigarette — and didn’t offer me one. First time that’s ever happened, since we always share everything. He smoked about half of it before he looked over at me.
“Just tell me that you’re sorry a great man got killed,” he said.
“I’m sorry a great man got killed,” I said.
And I am.
April 8, 1968
The big news today? The 1st Air Cav officially arrived at the main base and “rescued” us. The besieged, desperate Marines. Yeah. Sure. Like we needed rescuing. All we’ve needed for weeks now is enough damn supplies — and permission to go look for the NVA, instead of waiting for them to try and get the nerve up to come after us. But, how much you want to bet the doggies think they’re big, brave heroes for showing up here where they aren’t wanted?
There were Hueys filling the skies near the main base today — because doggies don’t like to walk. And since the sun went down, we’ve seen flares go up about every minute.
Looks to me like those Army guys are afraid of the dark. . . .
April 10, 1968
Army doggies are the luckiest guys in the world. There was no incoming down at the main base yesterday — not one round. First time that’s happened since January. We got a lot up here, and medevaced three more guys, but the NVA left the Air Cav alone. Ignored them completely. That just figures, doesn’t it? Some guys get all the luck.
Starting today, we’re running patrols again. Finally. The skipper wants us to pace ourselves, since we’ve been cooped up for so long and everyone’s lost a bunch of weight. He must be worried that we’re out of shape, but we’re ready to go. Let’s see if the NVA are willing to take us on face-to-face. And if they’re not, we’ll chase them.
Later —
Okay, we’re out of shape. Lots of panting and gulping water and trying not to get heat exhaustion today.
And that was just me.
I’ll never admit it to Rotgut, but humping the M60 is a real butt-kicker. It’s heavy. He saw me stagger a little on our way back up to the top of the hill, and he just laughed. I pretended that I’d slipped on a rock.
We didn’t have any contact out there today, and, well — maybe that didn’t break my heart. Yeah, I want payback, but that doesn’t mean I want a bunch of people shooting at me from close range. If they do, I’m ready for them, but I figure anyone who really wants to be in a fire-fight . . . hasn’t been in one before.
The terrain has really changed, because of all the air strikes and fire missions and everything. Those green hills are now full of big bomb craters, and a lot of the jungle growth has been completely burned away. I remember how beautiful it was when we first got here, but now, with all of the ground so torn up, it looks like a moon made of red clay. An ugly moon.
Right down at the base of our hill, we found this huge — and I mean, huge — empty complex of trenches, fighting holes, and freshly dug caves. As far as I could tell, the NVA have been digging down there — so close we should probably have been able to smell them — for weeks. They must have been planning to overrun 881S for real.
When we first saw it — and then realized how big and well-prepared the position was — everyone got really quiet for a minute. After all, we saw what it was like those nights when 861 and 861A got attacked. But then we all snapped out of it, started searching each and every hole and tunnel we could find, and got ready to destroy as much of it as we could with C-4 and grenades. Fire missions, and maybe air strikes, will take care of the rest. Some guys were even running around looking for souvenirs. I found this dented little metal rice bowl and a belt buckle with a star on it. Even though I didn’t really want the stuff, I stuck them in one of my cargo pockets, since everyone else was.
I’d be lying if I didn’t say that the entire time we were there, my stomach hurt.
A lot.
April 13, 1968
The hill is getting really crowded. During the past few days, the whole battalion has been moved over here to 881S, and there isn’t enough room. So, we’re just expanding the perimeter and spreading farther out onto the nearby ridges.
The NVA must have been excited to see so many nice, new targets, because we’ve been taking a lot of incoming rounds and machine gun fire. And yeah, quite a few casualties, too. I guess I’m used to it by now — but you never get used to it.
First thing tomorrow, the whole battalion is moving out to assault 881N. We know they’re out there, since they keep shooting at us. We were really pumped up — until we found out that our company had been assigned the reserve position.
In other words, we’re second-string. Back-ups. On the bench.
Even the skipper doesn’t get to go. His promotion just came down, so they brought in a new company commander. The skipper’s still up here on the hill, though, which makes me feel better. The new commander is probably okay — but he’s new.
It’s going to be hard to watch everyone but us head out there tomorrow.
April 14, 1968
They took the hill. While we watched. It was frustrating, but we still let out a hell of a cheer when the word came back that a kid from Kilo Company had climbed a tree and raised an American flag up on top of 881N. Throughout the fight, our hill laid down a constant stream of 60 mm and 81mm mortars, howitzer rounds, and recoilless rifle fire. The guys on the .50 caliber machine guns got a good workout, too.
The rest of us? Well, we mostly just watched. Except when the NVA managed to fire off a few rockets and some machine gun fire at us, and we had to take cover. One of the recoilless rifle gun teams got hit, and we had to call a chopper in to send four badly wounded guys out. As usual, the guns and mortars were firing so much that they overheated, and we did our usual “cool them down” techniques. It doesn’t even seem gross anymore — we just do it automatically.
In the meantime, the other companies swarmed all over 881N, and wasted every NVA they could find. I don’t think that there were as many as they expected, but the ones who were there fought hard. The rest of the NVA retreated, I guess. In the afternoon, our platoon was allowed to be a rear escort for the battalion command group, but by then, all of the fighting was pretty much over.
I heard six of our guys got killed out there, and there were maybe twenty WIAs who had to be evacuated. Casualties for the NVA were about ten or twenty times higher than that — which they just love to hear back at Division.
Doesn’t change the fact that six families back in the World are about to find out that their sons died on Easter.
Yeah, today was Easter Sunday. It didn’t feel right for there to be a big battle on such an important day. But, it also didn’t feel right when we went patrolling two days ago on Good Friday. Felt even worse when I had to fire my M60 at a couple of tree lines, after we kept getting sniper fire.
Last year on Good Friday, I got excused from baseball practice, because it wouldn’t have been right to play. My mother has always been really strict about us showing respect on religious holidays, especially Good Friday. And this year? Well, we didn’t find any bodies or anything, but for all I know, I might have killed someone out there. Maybe even more than one person. On Good Friday.
If you really thought about it, this war could make you completely crazy.
April 17, 1968, Khe Sanh Combat Base
We’ve turned 881S over to another company, and now we’re down on the main base, waiting to head back to the rear for a few days. I’m not sure where we’re going after that, but it’ll probably be somewhere near the DMZ. The Rockpile, maybe, or Con Thien. Bebop’s betting on Leatherneck Square, while the Professor is guessing that we’ll just end up humping through rice paddies and villages somewhere near the coast. It’s a whole different war over there, so it’ll be a big change.
The base is pretty deserted, since operations are winding down. But the NVA big guns over in Laos are still firing artillery roun
ds. I can’t wait to get out of here. I’m sick of Khe Sanh.
April 18, 1968, Quang Tri, Republic of South Vietnam
Like the man said, we’re finally in the rear, with the gear. Outstanding. Our whole company was lifted out of Khe Sanh this afternoon, and they flew us to Quang Tri. Quang Tri is this huge — and really safe — base, so it’s great to be here.
When the choppers showed up to get us, we had to dodge through another mortar and artillery barrage. The NVA were just saying good-bye, I guess. And as we took off, we could hear a few antiaircraft rounds slapping against the side of the chopper. Talk about feeling helpless. You just have to sit there, and hope they miss. This time, luckily, they did.
Then we landed at Quang Tri, and almost no one there was wearing flak jackets or helmets. A lot of Marines weren’t even carrying their rifles. It felt almost like being at some stateside base. On top of that, the Marine Corps Band was right by the edge of the airstrip, waiting for us. When we walked down the ramp of CH-53 chopper, the band started playing “The Marines’ Hymn.” It was pretty cool — I swear I actually felt chills when I heard the song.
There we are, completely filthy, our uniforms all torn and rotted, and so thin that what was left of our clothes was hanging off us. Most of the guys have beards now, because there was never enough water for people to shave — but even though I really tried, I couldn’t manage to grow one. I still figure I looked pretty damn grungy. Anyway, the band was playing, and we were all standing at attention and saluting.
I’m really lucky to be so cool, or else the whole thing might have made me feel a little choked up.
When the band finished, we were supposed to head onto the base to get showers and everything — but then, I looked at Bebop. You’ve never seen such a hungry expression in your whole life. He broke out of the ranks and practically ran over to one of the sax players. The Professor and I weren’t sure what he was going to do, so we followed him, in case he needed back-up.
“Hey, man, can I try your horn for a minute?” he asked.
The sax player — all neat and clean, in a perfect uniform — looked kind of scared, and moved away a couple of steps. “Sorry,” he said. “No can do.”
“Come on, please?” Bebop said. “I can’t tell you how much it would mean to me, Marine.”
The guy just kept shaking his head and moving away. He was looking around, like he thought someone might come and rescue him.
“Come on, troops!” our new CO was barking. “Leave ’im alone, and let’s move out!”
Bebop yanked his mouthpiece out of his pocket. “Just for a minute? Please?”
The Professor took out an NVA canteen he’d picked up on patrol, and when I saw that, I dug out the rice bowl and belt buckle I’d found the other day.
“Let him play, kid,” I said. “We’ll swap you these for five minutes on the horn.”
The kid looked tempted when he saw actual battlefield NVA souvenirs. Stuff like that is worth a lot in the rear. “I really can’t,” he said. “We’re not —” Then, he noticed Bebop’s mouthpiece. “Hey, is that an Otto Link?”
Bebop nodded, sticking an old reed in his mouth to get it damp enough to play.
“You a player, man?” the kid asked.
Bebop nodded, sucking away on the reed. “That your good horn?”
The kid looked down at his sax. “Are you kidding? Bring my good horn in-country? I got a Balanced Action at home.”
They started talking about saxophone brands and something called setups and stuff like that, while the kid fished out a fresh reed and gave it to Bebop.
“Here,” he said. “Try this one.”
Bebop looked it over, then nodded. “That’ll do,” he said, and stuck it in his mouth for a minute.
By the time he had borrowed the kid’s neck-strap and was holding the saxophone, most of the company had gathered around to see what was going to happen. Bebop ran his fingers down the keys, and smiled. Then, he took a deep breath and started to play. And it was amazing. He started off with this real swingy version of “The Marines’ Hymn,” and even the band came over to listen.
Then, he just — took off. I don’t really know how to describe it, but the sound kind of soared. I thought I could hear the song “My Favorite Things” somewhere in there, but he was going off in all different directions, and I suddenly knew what he meant when he’d told me about riffs and licks and improvising all those days and nights on 881S.
“Is that bebopping?” I asked the Professor softly.
The kid saxophone player heard me. “Man, is it ever,” he said, his voice awed.
I don’t know how long he played, but the whole world just seemed to slow down and listen. Everyone nearby on the base, anyway. All I could think was that I felt really lucky to know him. He’d talked so much about music, that I’d figured he had to be pretty good, but I had no idea. This was — this was just plain magic.
When he stopped, I blinked, and it took a few seconds to remember that I was in Vietnam, standing next to an airbase, in the middle of what had become a really big crowd. Everyone was clapping and yelling stuff at him, but Bebop was so cool that he just put his mouthpiece in his pocket, took off the neck strap, and handed the sax back to the kid.
“Nice horn,” he said, and walked away.
Man, you don’t get any cooler than that.
Later —
After that, we were herded off for showers — actual showers! — and fresh uniforms. When I tried to take off my T-shirt, it shredded right in my hands, leaving just the collar hanging around my neck. And my pants weren’t much better. When we dropped what was left of our old uniforms on the ground, flies gathered. Seriously. And the smell must have been intense, because people walking by winced and covered their noses.
First, they made us line up and some guys wearing gas masks sprayed this insecticide all over us. Didn’t make much sense to me, but the Professor said it was to get rid of lice. Oh, yeah, there’s a nice thought. After that, we lined up for showers. I wish there had been more water, because I would have stayed under those showers all afternoon. Layer after layer of clay and filth came off, but when I got out, my skin still looked reddish and felt gritty.
I guess it’ll take a lot more than one shower to get rid of Khe Sanh.
It was almost hard to recognize people without their beards and no longer covered by dirt. We were all laughing and fooling around and feeling absolutely great in clean uniforms. So what if most of them didn’t fit right?
Battalion had set it up so that a bunch of cooks were fixing steaks for us on these grills made out of fifty-five gallon metal drums. Boy, they smelled great. There was Black Label beer, too, which was what we all grabbed first. And someone had hooked up speakers, so we had rock and roll blaring out over the compound.
It was really fun. We were all hanging out, and eating and drinking, and trying to forget the last few months. It’s hard to believe, but only nineteen of the Golf Company guys who originally went up on 881S made it. Nineteen. That’s out of a couple of hundred guys. Everyone else was either killed or wounded. And even among the nineteen of us left, most of us got injured at least once. Wow. I knew things were bad up there, but I’d never actually heard the numbers before. Lots of our replacements got killed and wounded, too, so who knows how high the casualties really were.
After we ate, they told us to drop our gear off in this row of tents set aside for Golf Company. That’s where we’d be sleeping tonight, and maybe even for the next week or so. No one was quite sure where the battalion was going to be sent, or what we would be doing when we got there. No one much cared, either.
The idea of being in a regular hardback tent, on a cot, above the ground, seemed totally foreign. The first thing we all did was haul out our entrenching tools, so that we could dig in. We might not be in the field, but that was no reason to ge
t lazy — or careless. But we had barely gotten started, when some officer yelled at us to cut it out. I guess he didn’t want us messing up his nice, neat rows of tents or something. We just ignored him, but he was really bent out of shape, so finally the skipper told us to stop. The rules are different back in the rear, mainly because there are rules back in the rear.
It seemed stupid to us, but we were really tired, so we didn’t argue. Much. We ended up lying down on our bunks, sipping beer or Cokes, and talking. Without even discussing it, we all knew that we didn’t want to talk about the hill tonight — or Vietnam, or anything else that might spoil the mood. So we talked about girls, and more girls, and the best meals we’d ever had, and what cool cars we were all going to buy when we got back to the World, and stuff like that. Mostly, of course, we talked about girls.
We’re supposed to be issued new flak jackets tomorrow, because our old ones are so worn-out that they’re practically useless. My helmet’s still okay, although the BFD is really faded, and Mighty Mouse has a tear right through his cape. Maybe they’ll give me a new camo cover or something. I could use a pair of boots, too — mine have holes, the leather is all scarred, and the canvas is stained practically white from perspiration instead of green.
By about 2300, almost everyone was asleep. Pugsley had been snoring away since about 2100, which we all thought was pretty funny. In the field, you try not to snore, because it might give away your position. So, I guess he’s making up for lost time. Since we could pick any bunk we wanted, our tent was mostly filled with old guys, with only a few of the newer ones. I don’t know; I guess we just felt like hanging together tonight. Celebrating the fact that we’d made it down from 881S alive.
The Professor talked a little, but mostly, he had been lying on his rack reading. Batteries had been scarce for so long, but we didn’t have to worry about that here. The base has electricity. Rotgut seemed just the same as always — yep, you got it — mean, and he drank about as much as the rest of us put together. So I’m not sure if he was asleep, or if he’d just passed out.