1968 Read online

  Wilkes walked back to where the engineers were standing. “Killer, Spider, come on up. You got point.” Killer looked happy at the prospect, but Spider felt his knees go weak. The guy who walked point was likely to be the first one to meet the enemy.

  “This should be an easy one,” Wilkes said to Spider. “Killer’ll have it for the first hour or so; just watch what he does. Mainly you keep tabs on the point men on your right and left, stay even with them. Watch the ground for tripwires or any sign that somebody’s been digging.”

  “And look up in the trees for snipers?”

  “Yeah, but you won’t see ’em. They don’t shoot the point man, anyhow. They wait for the RTO. They bust the radio, we’re in deep shit.

  “If you do spot a mine or a tripwire, do like this.” He dropped to one knee and raised a fist. “Batman will bring Moses up and figure out what to do.”

  “Disarm it?” Killer said eagerly.

  “Jesus, no. They just do that in the movies. Blow it in place. Maybe mark it and have everybody walk around it, if they don’t want to make noise. Batman’s done it a couple of times.”

  “You’re not comin’?” Spider said.

  “Huh uh. I’m staying here with Chevy and Spaz and Tonto and Doc. We’ll join you if something interesting happens.”

  “We’re goin’ out without a medic?” Killer said.

  “Infantry’s got medics. Don’t worry; it’s gonna be a walk in the park.”

  “You sure?” Spider said. “Lotta people.”

  “Just a feeling, talkin’ to Top. Somebody at Brigade got a hair up his ass about those sappers. So you get to walk around for a couple days, report you didn’t find anything, come back to the fire base.” They got to the front of the line. “Okay. Here and here.” Killer and Spider took their positions.

  Like a lot of people, Killer took the weight off his shoulders by standing up his M16 and propping the packframe of his rucksack on its muzzle, leaning back slightly against it. It looked dangerous, but of course the weapon wouldn’t go off unless there was a round in the chamber. If it did go off, the bullet would enter in the small of his back and come out somewhere between his scalp and his navel (see “The Black Death [2]”).

  He lifted the heavy Magnum from its shoulder holster and clicked the cylinder around, checking it. It was a mannerism that annoyed Spider as much as anything Killer did. “Still have six?” he said.

  “All six.” He dropped the pistol back in and snapped the retaining strap over its hammer. “You done with that Heinlein yet?”

  “Hundred pages to go. You think we’ll have time to read?”

  “Oh, yeah. We usually got an hour or so of light after we get the bunker dug. Depends on the ground. Let me see the first part. Trade you Man in the High Castle or Pawns of Null-A.”

  “I read Null-A. That’s some weird shit.” He took the Heinlein book out of his side pocket and tore out the first half and gave it to Killer. It made him wince inwardly to damage books, because he had a rather large collection of paperbacks at home, and he took care of them. But everybody did it, and it wasn’t as if he were planning to carry the Heinlein around for the next ten months. He took The Man in the High Castle in exchange.

  A sergeant from the right flank came over with a complex topographic map and a simple diagram. He showed Killer and Spider where they were headed. They were going roughly east along a game trail that had been scouted out by a team of lurps, Long-Range Reconnaissance Patrol.

  Whistle blast and the top sergeant shouted, “Move ’em out.” They started toward the woods.

  The fire base was protected by three coils—“strands”—of concertina barbed wire, like heavy Slinkies with spikes. The coils were temporarily opened, tripwires disabled, in a space large enough for the three columns to pass through. Two men stood on either side, waiting to close it up again. Spider thought they looked a little too happy about staying behind.

  The hill was cleared down to stubble for about a hundred yards. Beyond that the rain forest loomed. It had seemed calm and beautiful from the air, when Spider flew into the fire base. But as they moved toward it, it grew taller and darker and more foreboding. Even the slight coolness that breathed out from it, the loamy woodland smell, seemed threatening.

  Once they were in it, the rain forest was neither dark nor cool. Large trees formed a thick canopy of leaves dozens of yards up, but dappled sky or sunshine broke through here and there. The going was all downhill, sometimes steep, but it looked as if the central file, the command group, would have a comparatively easy time of it, since they did have a trail to follow. The two flanks had to pick their way through a tangle of vines and small saplings.

  Spider watched the ground and trees, just in case Killer missed anything, and he tried to maintain the requisite three yards’ separation. They kept colliding anyhow, Killer stopping to let the flanks catch up and Spider intent on looking for boobytraps. The third time they collided, Killer whispered, “If I wanted a fuckin’ date I’d give you my fuckin’ phone number!”

  Spider caught the fear in Killer’s voice. “You walk point a lot?”

  He looked at him for a second and shook his head in a little jerk. “Once.”

  Both flanks were making what seemed like too much noise, their point men crashing through the brush, cursing the comealong vines. It occurred to Spider that they must still be in a pretty secure area. That’s why the more experienced troops were casual about noise; that’s why he and Killer were given point. Or maybe it was all a horrible mistake and they were going to run into an ambush and die.

  He resumed his study of the ground.

  Mines and boobytraps

  Boobytraps would eventually account for 11 percent of American deaths in Vietnam (as opposed to 3 percent in World War II). They would account for 17 percent of wounds, and many of the wounds were terrible.

  American soldiers were cautioned against littering in the field, because rubbish could come back in fatal form. The largest C-ration can—the type that held Frankfurters and Beans or Spaghetti with Meat Sauce—was just the right size to hold a Mark 2 hand grenade, restraining the safety lever from popping away. So an enemy soldier could attach a thin wire to the grenade, slip it into the can, pull the pin, and then carefully arrange the assembly so the can—conveniently dark green—was hidden from view and the just-taut wire crossed a trail at ankle height. A careless American would snag the wire and pull the grenade out of the can. He would certainly hear the safety lever pop away, even if he hadn’t noticed the trip wire, but he might not react in time to save his life or limbs. The person behind him might be killed or mutilated as well, or even someone much farther away. The base plug of an M-2, a solid chunk of metal, could be flung as far as two hundred yards.

  The Vietnamese made boobytraps out of all kinds of salvaged and stolen ordnance, from single rifle rounds to dud 500-pound bombs. The most dangerous and effective ones were “command-detonated,” an observer watching from a safe distance with an electrical switch or a radio-frequency detonator. That way he could wait and pop the boobytrap when the RTO walked over it, or blow a specific vehicle off the road.

  The enemy also employed non-explosive boobytraps, which were effective both as psychological and tactical weapons. The most common was the punji stake, a spike of hardened bamboo smeared with human excrement and buried in a shallow hole, pointing up at a slight angle, camouflaged with brush. If a soldier put his weight on it, the spike could punch through the sole of his boot, penetrate the entire foot, and come out the top. The pain was indescribable. Even with quick evacuation, the infection spread by the excrement could lead to amputation or death. The weapon didn’t cost a nickel and it would stop a column just as surely as a frontal assault.

  There were also tiger pits, deep holes filled with punji stakes and camouflaged. The most bizarre use of the punji stake, though, was a device called the killerball. This was a ball of hardened clay or concrete, bristling with punji stakes, suspended at the end of a rope tied to
a stout tree branch. The heavy ball was pulled back like a swing or suspended pendulum, and released at the proper moment, to whip down a jungle trail at waist level and impale one or several Americans. Killerballs were rarely seen but often discussed.

  Walking point

  After an hour or so of walking, the word came up to shift positions. Killer stood aside to wait for the end of the line, Spider moving up to point.

  Killer removed the magazine from his rifle, jacked the round out of the chamber and slid it into the top of the magazine. Only the point men were supposed to carry a round in the chamber. “Lock and load,” he said to Spider, clicking the magazine back into place. “Keep it on safety.”

  Spider’s rifle had never been off safety. He pulled the cocking lever back and let it slap forward. He hit it once sharply with the heel of his hand, as he’d seen other men do, to make sure the cartridge was properly seated. It ripped a piece of skin off his palm.

  Sweat trickled down his ribs as he waited for the flanks to start moving. He clicked the selector switch off SAFE to SEMI and FULL—single-shot and fully automatic—then back to SAFE again. It made the back of his head prickle. He might actually have to kill someone in the next hour. His mouth went dry and he tasted bile in the back of his throat. He unscrewed a canteen and swallowed a mouthful of tepid water, flavored with metal and plastic. Really and truly kill someone forever.

  “Move it,” the man behind him muttered. Spider hustled forward five or six steps and then slowed down, carefully scanning the trail in front of him.

  The trail was well defined, soil showing through the beaten-down underbrush here and there. But it wouldn’t be difficult to conceal a mine or boobytrap in the trampled weeds. Spider recalled the one day of schooling he’d had about mines in engineer training—he’d been assigned KP the second day—and remembered how hard it was to see the little pin that would detonate the mine if you stepped on it. And that demonstration mine had been buried in soft dirt, with no obscuring grass.

  Something crashed through the branches overhead and Spider tilted his weapon up at it, heart hammering. “Just a monkey,” the guy behind him said. His bored tone was reassuring. He was one of the riflemen assigned to the command group. Spider didn’t know him, but he’d assumed the officers would pick the most experienced men.

  But then he thought about it: no, they’d put the experienced men on the flanks, since they were the ones who actually shot at the enemy. This guy might not know any more than Killer or even Spider himself.

  For a moment Spider was actually paralyzed. He couldn’t move; he couldn’t even feel his arms and legs. It was as if his body had realized one step and you could die, and decided not to take that step. Then he went forward, catching up with the man on his left, but his guts churned, audibly.

  This is just great, he thought, a great time to get the shits. He clenched it back and was rewarded with a sharp cramp. Sweat broke out cold on his face. What do you do? Raise your hand and get a hall pass from the teacher?

  “Got to take a crap,” he whispered to the man behind him.

  “No you don’t. You gotta hold it.”

  Spider glanced at his watch and realized he hadn’t checked the time when he’d rotated to point. Did they shift every hour, or just odd times now and then? It was ten-fifteen. Maybe at eleven they’d rotate, and he could duck behind a bush and let fly. He could hold on for forty-five minutes. He wouldn’t look at his watch.

  He really wanted a cigarette. Nobody’s said anything, but Killer hadn’t smoked while he was on point. As if to give permission, the man behind him lit up. Spider juggled rifle and axe and managed to shake out a Lucky and locate his Zippo, which worked on the third try.

  Meanwhile he had walked several yards without looking down. The thought galvanized him even as the nicotine relaxed him. He studied the ground and trees through a cloud of smoke as he inhaled two deep drags.

  Just hang in there. You can make it through forty-five minutes, more like forty now, don’t look at the watch. He swallowed hard and spent an uncomfortable minute wondering whether it would be worse to vomit or to lose control of one’s bowels. Either end seemed possible. But you couldn’t, you couldn’t! It would be better to step on a mine and be vaporized. Or step on a punji stake. Nobody would blame you if you lost control. Poor old Spider God I’d shit too, they’d say.

  The cramp subsided and Spider was able to relax at least one part of his body. Then he clenched up again when the man behind him whispered, “Snake!”

  A huge snake, as big around as a man’s thigh, was coiled up in the crotch of a fat tree between him and the right flank. It seemed to be sleeping; he couldn’t see its head. “Reticulate python,” he said automatically, recalling the one in the Snake House at the Washington Zoo. (It was actually an Indian python, but he was close enough.)

  “Big motherfucker,” the other guy said in agreement. Spider thought of the sergeant who had given the orientation lecture, the first day in Vietnam. There are a hundred different kinds of snakes in Vietnam, he said, and ninety-nine of them are poisonous. The other one eats you whole.

  But Spider knew that pythons didn’t eat people. Maybe babies. He stared at it, fascinated and unafraid. He loved exotic animals; dragged Beverly to the zoo more often than she wanted to go. He’d never seen anything in the woods bigger than a garter snake.

  He had to move on, catch up with the flanks. Another twinge, don’t look at the watch, maybe thirty minutes, thirty-five tops.

  Suddenly there was a distant rattle of machine-gun fire. Spider dropped to one knee. He looked around and saw the flanks had disappeared, flopping out of sight into the brush. The man behind him had flattened out, too, lying on his side, listening. Spider imitated him.

  There was another short burst of machine-gun fire and a pop that was probably a grenade. Spider thought it had to be at least a mile away, behind them, but he didn’t really know. He could hear the captain talking on the radio to someone.

  After a couple of minutes a message was passed whispering up the line. “Cap says they had movement back at the fire base, one of the OPs. We’re supposed to wait.” OPs were outposts, teams of two or three men hiding in four or five places near the base, listening and watching for enemy movement.

  Spider knew the OPs weren’t supposed to shoot. Just report by radio and then tiptoe back to the base.

  “Shit,” the man behind him said. “If that’s for real they prob’ly make us go back and play soldier.”

  There was no more machine-gun fire, but less than a minute later there were five faint pops from the opposite direction, and a salvo of artillery rounds went overhead with a sound like ripping cloth. Then five overlapping, echoing explosions from the fire base. Spider was about to ask why they didn’t use their own artillery, but he figured it out: the OP was too close to the fire base. To reach it with their own guns, they’d have to shoot almost straight up, and that would be wildly inaccurate. (He’d paid close attention during the artillery demonstration in Basic. A lot of it reminded him of science fiction.)

  An older man Spider didn’t recognize moved quickly up the right flank, speaking urgently to a few people. A few of them followed him back. There was a similar shifting around on the left.

  “Bet they’re settin’ up ambushes,” the man behind him said. “Figure the gooks’ll run from the artillery, come down the trail here.”

  Batman and Moses hurried up the trail, slightly crouched. “We gotta find a place to blow an LZ,” Batman said. “You Murphy?”

  The rifleman nodded. “You’re all X-Ray?” That was the code name for the engineers.

  “Right. You get to be our support.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ. Just me?”

  “For now.” Batman studied the terrain ahead. “Looks lighter over there.” He pointed to a place a couple of hundred yards to the right and started off the trail.

  Murphy cocked his M16. “Better lock an’ load.” Batman and Moses did. They picked their way down a slight
defile, comealong vines pulling at their pants legs, and then back up again. The land leveled off and there was a partial clearing.

  In the middle of it was a rubber tree with a trunk about a foot and a half thick. Batman patted it. “Five pounds for this one. Maybe half a stick for that one and that one. That one, too. A third stick each.” He pointed at other trees nearby, smaller.

  “You’re not gonna blow any LZ now,” Murphy said.

  “Huh uh. Not unless they make contact.”

  “They set up an ambush?”

  “God, who knows. They just told me to find a place.” Three more artillery rounds ripped overhead. “I don’t think it’s nothin’. You hear any return fire?”

  “Nah. Prob’ly just some fuckin’ dinks walkin’ through the woods.”

  “Well, let’s hope so. Lay it out anyhow. Take Spider through the drill,” he said to Moses. They were both the same rank, Spec-4, but Batman had been incountry twice as long, and automatically took charge.

  “Wait, man,” Spider said in a voice that was almost squeaky with strain. “I got to take a shit in the worst way.”

  “Do it in your pants; that’s the worst way.” Batman handed him his shovel. “Go behind a bush and dig thyself a hole.”

  Spider shrugged out of his rucksack, rushed to the nearest bush and scooped up one shovelful of dirt. He dropped his pants and backed squatting over the hole and evacuated, liquid and embarrassingly loud, and managed to pee all over his trousers in the process. C-ration meals each had one small roll of toilet paper in a brown wrapper; he used all of one and half of another. He pulled up his damp pants and slid the divot back over the hole.

  He returned to the others and Batman handed him his M16. “Always take a weapon. Never can tell.” That would be a hell of a way to die, caught with your pants down.

  Moses laid out the proper amounts of C-4 by each tree. The five-pounder was two of the packages, which looked like vanilla saltwater taffy. Then he tore open a package and broke the stick into thirds, saving the plastic wrapper. The broken C-4 had a sweet chemical smell. He set the chunks of explosive next to the three smaller trees and then paced around from one to the other, unrolling det cord from a reel. Detonation cord was just plastic tubing filled with an explosive similar to C-4. Once properly connected, all four trees would blow up simultaneously.