And then, the fog rolled in, as thick as I’d ever seen it. All of the helicopters were grounded again, and we had no way of getting him out until the weather cleared. So the corpsman, Doc Jarvis, had to try and keep him alive for however long it took to get the medevac in. Food and water aren’t the only things that are scarce up here — we’re also always close to running out of bandages, glucose, blood expanders, and all the other stuff the corpsmen need.
We all knew it was bad. I think Mooch knew, too, but he never said so. We were on alert, because the NVA were probing our lines on and off all night, so we had to take turns sitting with him. The only time he complained was to say how thirsty he was. Doc Jarvis told us that people with stomach wounds aren’t supposed to drink anything, and just to try and change the subject whenever he asked.
Not that we have any damn water up here, anyway — although we would have given Mooch every bit of it. At this point, we have ponchos strung up all the place, because when the dew and mist gather on the plastic, we can collect a little water. Not much, but when they talk about beggars not being choosers? We’ve all turned into beggars.
It was about three in the morning, and I was sitting next to Mooch in the section of trench we were using as an aid station. He was lying on the ground on a thick layer of poncho liners, because we were trying to make him comfortable. Every so often, we could hear a bunch of grenades go off, or a little flurry of automatic weapons fire — theirs and ours.
“You should be on the sixty, man,” Mooch said. His voice had gotten all raspy and weak, by now. He slurred most of his words, too.
I shook my head, and told him it gave Bebop a chance to feel rough and tough. He actually does love firing the pig; he just doesn’t want to have to carry it around. Who does? It weighs more than twenty pounds — and that doesn’t include the ammunition, the extra barrels, the tripod, and everything else you have to bring along with it.
Even with artillery firing and air strikes and all of the other noise going on outside, it seemed quiet where we were. I had leaned an M16 against the trench wall, in case the hill was assaulted and I needed to protect us.
“Can’t feel my legs, man,” Mooch said, very matter of fact.
Doc Jarvis was pretty sure the bullet had bounced around inside him, and was probably resting against his spinal cord. Or, it might have done even more damage than that — Doc just didn’t know.
“Well, we’ll get you out of here really soon, and the docs at Charlie Med will fix you right up,” I said. I hope I sounded like I believed it. It was hard to tell whether Mooch wanted to talk, or just be quiet together, so I was trying my best to follow his cues.
He didn’t say anything for a few minutes, and I was afraid he had passed out — or worse.
“What are you always writing in that blue book?” he wanted.
You know, no one had ever asked me that before — not even Bebop. “Just the stuff that happens here,” I said. “What I think about it. I don’t know.”
“Are you good at writing?” he asked.
I told him the truth, which is that no, I’m not, and I pretty much use the same words over and over, because I don’t know very many. But he asked me if I would help him write letters to his mother and his wife, and of course, I said yes. Since we haven’t gotten any mail for so long, none of us knows how are our families are doing, or what’s happening back in the world. With choppers getting shot down and crashing all the time, we don’t even know if our letters are getting to them.
Anyway, Doc Jarvis gave me a pen and some paper.
Both of Mooch’s letters were sweet, and simple, and full of love. That he was okay, that he didn’t want them to worry, but he just wanted them to know how he felt about them. I think I almost started crying when he had me tell his wife that if anything happened to him, he wanted her to find someone else. That she was too young to be alone, and whoever she married was going to be the second luckiest guy on earth.
As we wrote, his voice was getting weaker and it seemed to be an effort for him to breathe. I kept asking if he wanted to stop for a while, and he’d say, “Nope, gotta do this now.”
“You think those’ll be okay?” he asked, when we were finished with the letters, and I was addressing the envelopes. “That they’ll like them?”
“I think they’ll love them,” I said. Treasure them.
Mooch died just after 0930 this morning. He was seventeen years old.
The fog lifted maybe twenty minutes later.
February 14, 1968
I don’t want to make any more friends. It’s just too hard. Bebop and the Professor are the only two guys left in the squad from when I first got in-country. Pugsley’s the only other old guy. We’re getting a lot of new replacements, but it seems like most of them don’t even make it a week out here before they get hit. So, what’s the point of making friends with them? The more friends you have, the more depressing it is, because you keep losing them all the time.
But I remember when I got here, and no one talked to me for the first week. So I don’t like turning right around and doing that to other people. Guess I can’t win, no matter what I do.
Seems like there’s a lot of that going around here lately.
Morale is pretty low — the worst I’ve seen it. So, the skipper has started holding flag ceremonies at 0800 in the morning, and then again at sundown. At first, I thought it was the stupidest thing I ever heard. All of us, standing out in the open, at attention, saluting — while the NVA drop mortars on top of our heads? Yeah, great idea.
But, you know, it’s actually turned out to be okay. From the time we hear the little pop — depending on the kind of mortar, sometimes it’s more like a “boop” or a “thunk” — we have just over twenty seconds to get out of the way. That’s plenty of time to find your way into a trench or something. One of the new lieutenants even has a bugle. He’s not very good, but hey, he plays better than I do. Bebop borrowed it one time, to see how he could do, but said brass just wasn’t his thing and gave it back.
Anyway, the lieutenant plays “To the Colors”— really fast — and we all stand at attention while two guys raise the flag. We finish up, leap into the trenches or the CP bunker, and laugh like wild men as the mortar rounds come in. We all take turns raising and lowering the flag, and we dug a couple of deep holes right next to the pole so that the two guys can jump right in, instead of trying to make it to the trenches. At first, we were just using a radio antenna for a flagpole, but now we’ve rigged up a more permanent one.
When you think about it, it’s a great idea. Shows the NVA that we’re not at all scared of them. Plus, it gives us something to do that’s patriotic, rebellious, and really dumb. Kind of the perfect combination for a Marine.
Found out a little while ago that we’re not allowed to fly the American flag without flying the South Vietnamese one, too — but are any of them up here in the dirt with the rest of us? Nope. We’re happy to fly their flag; they just have to come on up and help us raise it.
Don’t see that happening, somehow. Until then, we’ll just get a charge out of looking at the Stars and Stripes flapping around in the fog and clouds.
We’re using more than one LZ now, to try and keep the NVA off-balance. We pop different colors of smoke at the last second, and only the chopper pilots know which color is the correct one. So, they land, and the NVA just have to guess where it might be. Sometimes — too often — they guess right, but it helps a little.
The resupply choppers don’t even land anymore, unless they’re dropping off new replacements or picking up guys who are going on R&R or something. They just cut loose a cargo net of supplies and try to time it so that it lands safely on the LZ. At least half of the time, the plastic water containers — we call them “water bladders” — break open from the force of hitting the ground. Here we are, practically dying of thirst, and you hav
e to sit there and watch water spilling out all over the ground without being able to do anything about it.
Last week, a huge load of ammo and C rations drifted off to one side and crushed two poor guys from Hotel Company. That was just ugly. Other times, the supplies miss the hill completely, and land somewhere down the sides of the hill, past the perimeter. When that happens, we’re always under orders to blow them up, so that the NVA won’t be able to take the stuff for themselves. Everyone gets really mad when that happens, because we’re just sure that our mail is getting blown up down there, too.
Today, though, one of the choppers had to land, because we were sending out two priority medevacs, and a guy from 1st Platoon whose tour is up. Man, did we all envy him. I helped with one of the stretchers, because I happened to be on my way back from the ammo bunker, where I was picking up some extra rounds for the sixty.
A replacement leaped out of the chopper, and made a dash for the trench. He rolled into it, and landed right on top of me. When I saw who it was, I blinked, and then grinned at him.
“Hi, Rotgut,” I said, and punched him really hard in the stomach. “Welcome back.”
The wind was knocked out of him for a minute, but then he laughed and straightened his glasses. “You owed me that one, hunh?”
Good. He hadn’t forgotten about slugging me during the battle on 881N. “Yep,” I said. Wow, it was great to see one of the old guys back. “How you doing, buddy?” There was a red raised scar running across his cheek and down his jaw, but other than that, he seemed fine.
“I’m okay,” he said, and turned onto his back to look around. The trench was much deeper than it had been when he left, and the bunny holes and roll-outs were new, too. So were the mortar and artillery attacks, for that matter. “Did I miss anything?”
“Not a thing,” I said.
February 19, 1968
Sprained my ankle pretty badly today. Got caught in the open when the mortars started, and landed all wrong inside the nearest trench. Doc Jarvis taped it up for me, and I can walk, but just barely. It’s the same ankle I always used to sprain playing basketball, so maybe it’s just not as strong as the other one. Hope I don’t have to do any serious running the next few days, or I’m in trouble.
After that, we got orders to hunker down inside our holes. Some general somewhere had decided to “experiment” and have a B-52 Arc Light raid fly much closer than usual to our position. I guess they thought they might catch a bunch of NVA by surprise. But they weren’t sure if it would be safe to drop those massive bombs that close to friendly positions. So, guess who got to be the guinea pigs? Yep, who else? Hill 881S.
We were supposed to be alerted over the squad radios exactly when the bombs were being dropped. Then — even though they were sure nothing would go wrong — they wanted us to cover our ears and yell as loud as we could, to help protect us from the concussion of the bombs.
Well, I’ll tell you one thing — when the bombs hit and started bouncing us off the ground and slamming us into the dirt walls — remembering to scream was not a problem.
Even after it was over, we all just sat there in a daze, with our mouths hanging open. Most of us had bloody noses — just from the force of the explosions — and I couldn’t hear at all out of my left ear. Still can’t, actually.
Hope the generals enjoyed the show.
February 23, 1968
The main base really got pounded today. It started early, and didn’t let up all day. Had to be at least a thousand rounds, maybe more. I wonder how many people got hurt.
Not that we didn’t take a bunch of rounds, too, but what else is new? My ear still doesn’t feel right, so I’m wearing my helmet tilted to one side most of the time. That way, I can use my good ear to pick up those god-awful metallic pops when the rounds get dropped into their tubes and head our way. By now, most of us can tell exactly what kind of round it is, and make a pretty good guess of where it’s going to land, just by the sound.
I thought about asking for a medevac to go get my ear checked out — but most of the artillery and mortar guys are half-deaf at this stage of the game, and I don’t see them going anywhere. So, I won’t, either.
My ankle still hurts a lot, too. Just for the record.
This afternoon, a guy from 2nd Platoon suddenly flipped out. We’ve had a couple of guys wig out so far, but not too many, all things considered. Anyway, he was this big tough redneck named Dixie, who usually swaggered around with a big wad of chewing tobacco stuffed in his cheek, but I guess life on 881S was a little more than he could take. First, he let off a whole magazine inside his bunker. Said he was only trying to kill rats, but the other guy who was in there at the time didn’t want to hear it. They got into a fight, but the rest of their squad broke it up pretty quickly.
But then, Dixie came running outside and jumped up on top of a pile of sandbags near the perimeter. He was swearing and waving his arms in the air and yelling for the NVA to just go ahead and send him home, if they were so tough.
The guy got his wish. Some machine gunner out in the hills stitched him right across the chest about ten seconds later.
So he’ll be going home. In a bag.
February 25, 1968
The mood on the hill is pretty dark lately. Too much shelling, too many mortar attacks, too many casualties. Not enough food, water, and mail. Nothing new there, but after a while, it really gets to you.
Bebop must have decided that we all needed some big league cheering up, because right after the fog burned off today, he headed down the trench to the saddle between our company and Hotel Company. We use it as one of our LZs, but the NVA have the location so accurately locked in with their weapons, that we call it “No Man’s Land.”
“What’s he doing?” Pugsley asked me.
How was I supposed to know? But I made my way down the trench, too, in case he was about to have a nervous breakdown and dance around like that guy Dixie the other day. People seemed to sense that something was up, and a bunch of guys came yawning out of their bunny holes to see what was going on.
I could see that Bebop was about to climb out of the trench — and I didn’t like it.
“Cut it out, man!” I yelled from where I was standing. “It’s not funny.”
Bebop just grinned at me, took a deep breath, and jumped out onto No Man’s Land. Then he spread his arms out to the side and ran across the saddle, singing “The hills are alive, with the sound of mortars!” at the top of his lungs. We all heard the pop of the tubes, but Bebop stopped in the middle of No Man’s Land and twirled once. Then he ran the rest of the way across the saddle, still singing his own made-up lyrics to the song, and tumbled into the trench with about three seconds to space.
The mortars came in, right on target, but we were all safely down inside the trenches and bunny holes, and the shrapnel just sprayed around harmlessly. Once the barrage stopped, we all laughed so hard that my stomach still hurts, hours later.
“The twirl, man,” the Professor said to Bebop. “The twirl made it beautiful.”
Bebop just grinned, and looked at the rest of us. “Who’s next?” he asked.
And just like that, we had a new standard for coolness on the hill. You get extra points if the visibility is really good, but because it takes a few extra seconds, for slow runners, the twirl is optional.
Real Marines are proud to imitate Maria Von Trapp.
February 27, 1968
This guy the captain’s been using as a spotter struck gold today. Saw some movement out near Co Roc Mountain in Laos, and told the skipper he’d located one of the NVA’s big guns. It was too far away for our howitzers to hit it, but the skipper got on the horn and brought in some jets cruising nearby. Our spotter managed to put some bombs directly onto the position, and we all cheered when he said the gun had been blown to bits. Far as he could tell, the NVA were storing the gun in som
e kind of cave. They must roll it out just to pop off a few rounds, and then roll it back in out of sight. Our jets will probably start carpet-bombing that whole location regularly now, and maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ll take the rest of the artillery pieces and mortars out, too.
Took that guy two weeks of staring out there, but he finally got them. Hope they put him in for a medal — he deserves it.
We’ve also been able to wipe out two snipers recently, using the 106mm recoilless rifles. Those 106mm guys are so used to firing at 881N that they can pretty much pin-point every shot, if they want. They just need a good target. All we have to do is locate the muzzle flash when the sniper shoots at us, and then the recoilless guys put a round right in there. Since each of those snipers was responsible for hitting about ten of our people apiece — including Mooch, we cheered when the rifles took them out.
The new Luke the Gook is a whole different story. I’m not sure if the guy could hit you if you stood five feet in front of him. He pops off rounds all day long, but never even comes close. So, we’ve been having a little fun with old Luke. We hold up targets for him — like a helmet on top of a really long stick, and see if he can hit them. When he misses, we hold up a red flag to let him know, just the way the drill sergeants used to on the rifle range. At boot camp, it was called “Maggie’s Drawers.” A couple of guys made this flag by nailing a pair of USMC issue swim trunks — red, with some gold markings — to a tent pole. So, when our pal Luke misses, we give him a good old Marine salute. It’s always good for a laugh. I wouldn’t be surprised if it makes Luke laugh, too.
It’s easy to find his muzzle flashes, but we’re not going to go after him. If we do, they might find a sniper who can actually shoot worth a damn. But we like Luke — he can stay around as long as he wants. Unless his aim starts getting better.