The Ambush – part 3 (conclusion)
Sergeant Anderson slowly made his way to his lieutenant’s quarters, wondering which Lieutenant Goldman he was going to meet with this afternoon. The Jekyl and Hyde act was starting to wear thin on the sergeant, and he hoped that today he would not have listen to any of his CO’s tirades. The odd thing was that the two of them got along fine in the field, where it counted most. It was here on the base that there always seemed to be a problem. Zeke did not think he could correct the problem himself, because he was never exactly sure what the problem was. Standing outside the lieutenant’s tent for a minute, Anderson took a deep breath. “LT,” he yelled when he was ready to go inside.
“Come
on in Zeke,” Myron answered.
The
sergeant took it as a good sign that the lieutenant had used his first name and
momentarily relaxed.
“The
old man wants us right back out tomorrow,” Goldman said, pouring them both a
drink. “He wants to drop us just a few
clicks north of where we found the ammo,” Myron paused, trusting his sergeant’s
opinion. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”
“I
don’t know Sir,” Zeke shrugged.
“Charlie’s probably long gone by now anyway.”
The
lieutenant nodded, relieved. Looking
at the same map from the previous day, the two men revisited the plans and
details they had marked earlier.
Finally satisfied with their preparation, Anderson turned to leave.
“I’ll
go inform the men Sir,” he said. Not
able to leave well enough alone, the sergeant quipped, “I think this occasion
calls for one more drink, LT.”
“What
occasion is that Sergeant?” Myron
asked, confused.
“Well
Sir, we finally got through a meeting without jumping down each other’s
throats,” Zeke smiled.
“He
means without me jumping down his throat,” Myron acknowledged. The lieutenant uncomfortably raised his
glass. Although he had been thinking
the same thing, the young officer would have preferred not to voice the feeling. That fact underscored just one of the many
differences between the officer and the NCO.
*****************************
Sergeant
Anderson informed his unit that they would be back out searching their sector
at 0700 tomorrow morning. A subdued
third squad checked their gear for the upcoming mission. Johnson had been right, it was just a
continuation of the previous Search & Destroy—the reprieve had been
short-lived.
“You
all right Rue?” Doc asked, putting his
hand on the downcast private’s shoulder, effectively snapping him out of his
trance.
Ruiz
nodded. “It’s my kid sister’s birthday
tomorrow,” he mumbled. “First one I’ll miss.”
The guys nodded sympathetically and the barracks was temporarily
quiet.
It
was hard in the Nam to come to terms with the fact that The World kept turning
and changing…constantly moving forward.
Somehow, it seemed all too easy, making even the most confident soldier
pause to wonder… if the world can function without me for thirteen months,
what is to stop it from functioning without me for…ever?
“What
is the best birthday you ever had?” Doc
asked, trying to lighten the mood.
After
a few minutes of thoughtful silence, Baker spoke up. “That’s easy,” he said enthusiastically. “My sixteenth. Some of my buddies and me ditched school and hit the beach. I never seen waves like I saw that day. It was the best,” the surfer proclaimed, his
voice drifting off to savor the memory.
The guys nodded appreciatively, reflecting on their own birthdays.
“Okay, how about the best Christmas?” Baker asked.
“I
was ten years old,” Danny started, thinking back. “That’s when I got Jake, didn’t ask for him either, I just got
him.”
“Jake?”
Johnson asked.
“Me
and that dog was best friends for a long time Marvin, he died just last year,”
Danny acknowledged sadly. After giving
Jake his minute of respect, Danny looked directly and Taylor. “All right, all right,” he laughed. “Best sex?” Rudy was grateful Danny had not thought to look at him.
“Well,
let’s see now boys,” Taylor said, sliding right into his “smooth as silk
Marcus Taylor” act. They all
groaned. “That would have to be the
summer of 1966 with Brenda Wilson. I’ll
bet that girl has not been happy with anyone since that day,” Marcus added
arrogantly, as his friends laughed and threw a couple of pillows at him.
“Best
meal?” Rudy prompted, wanting to change
the topic and thinking about his mom’s roast beef and potatoes.
“The
meal my mom made the day before I left for the Nam,” Marvin said, licking his
lips and listing all of his favorites--making each of the young soldier’s
mouths water for their own mom’s cooking.
“Best
day ever?” Johnson asked, keeping the game going.
“Winning
the Florida High School Football State Championship,” Spencer chimed in
immediately. “Three years of all that
hard work and practice…was the best day of my life,” he confided.
“The
day I got my driver’s license,” Horn reminisced. “I think I was sixteen.
My dad let me take the car out by myself. I remember driving around, blasting the radio and thinking that I
was going to remember what a great day it was.”
“Worst
day ever?” Horn asked, without thinking.
The
room grew quiet. “None of us seen that
day yet,” Andy finally answered. The
rest of the young soldiers nodded in agreement and went back to the task of
getting ready for another day in the jungle, each silently wondering how long
they would be out, and if tomorrow or the next day or the day after that, would
turn out to be their own worst day ever.
***********************
The
flapping sound of the rotors could be heard before the choppers were visible in
the morning sky and the men wasted no time in turning their backs and shielding
their eyes from the inevitable cloud of dust that would accompany the
landing. “Saddle up,” the lieutenant
yelled, as the birds landed and the soldiers took their places on the aircraft.
Myron
leaned back, resting his head on the hard steel of the huey as he tried to
concentrate on the upcoming mission.
What was irritating the lieutenant about this assignment was the fact
that headquarters did not seemed to have much intelligence on what to
expect. Somehow, before actually
arriving in country, Myron had assumed that the United States Army, the
greatest army in the world, would have information on enemy build-ups, troop
movements, strengths and weaknesses, and other intelligence, but in the short
time the lieutenant was here, he realized that simply was not the case.
Major
Rigby had assigned sectors for each platoon to search because of rumors
of build-ups. Sergeant Anderson had
pointed out that they were just rumors.
There could be no NVA, there could be a few old men or there could be a
battalion. Bravo Company had no idea
what they would run into. It made Myron nervous and it made the men more jumpy
than usual. The newbie lieutenant was
starting to hate these Search & Destroy missions as much as his veteran
sergeant did. The platoon was
instructed to plant a few listening devices along the trail, other than that
they were just supposed to "check things out."
********************************
Twenty-four
days later, the weary, exhausted men of second platoon, Bravo Company were
still “checking things out.”
Lieutenant
Goldman used his towel to keep the sweat from running into his eyes and called
for a fifteen-minute break. The fact
that it was the twenty-fourth day of the operation, combined with the heat and
humidity, had the soldiers complaining more than usual and the bitching was
becoming increasingly difficult for Goldman to ignore. This Search & Destroy was the longest
mission the young lieutenant had been out on, but unlike his troops, Myron did
not have the luxury of whining about it.
Twenty-four
days without much enemy contact was hard on everyone. The lieutenant had been trying to get his tired platoon out of
the field, but command was not listening.
During the first week, the unit had stumbled across two sleeping enemy
soldiers, promptly capturing them and shipping them back to the base. Apparently, one had given a lot of pertinent
information. The unit had also
discovered two-dozen enemy rifles, purely by accident, hidden in a well.
On
top of all that, the lieutenant had only called for one medivac in the three
weeks plus of humping. Private Caldwell
had tripped and twisted his ankle. The
joint had swelled up and Doc thought that it could possibly be broken. A scorpion had bitten Andrew Egan, and
although it would not kill him, the point man would have a fever for a few
days, so the lieutenant had sent him back with the dust off. Other than that, it had been pretty
uneventful. With no KIA’s and only two
minor injuries, the mission was considered a resounding success by the brass
and, unfortunately, they were not ready to call it off.
“Knock
it off,” Myron snapped testily to the group of complaining soldiers closest to
him.
Taylor
started to reply, “Maybe you don’t mind the chow Lieutenant but…”
Myron
had enough. “All of you just shut up,”
he said angrily. “This is a war. We have all been out the same number of
days, in the same heat and…” The lieutenant paused for just a second, “WE ARE ALL EATING THE SAME CHOW!” Taking a breath, the irritated CO lowered
his voice and continued. “Do you think
we could go one day without bitching about the same damn things?” The men
stared at their lieutenant, not quite sure what to make of his outburst. “One day,” the lieutenant repeated, turning
his attention back to the map. “That’s
all I ask.”
That
night after settling into their NDP, Ruiz found Sergeant Anderson. “You got a minute Sarge?” He asked. The tired sergeant followed Ruiz to one of
the foxholes where Zeke found most of his squad, though not all.
"Look
Sarge," Rue nodded towards the men.
Taylor and Johnson had their boots off.
Their feet were swollen and bleeding.
Rue pointed to Percell, the left side of his face was puffy and his left
eye was swollen shut. Some type of
spider bite Anderson assumed. Not sure
exactly what his men wanted, Zeke waited patiently.
Finally
Taylor broke the stillness.
"Sarge," he said quietly, "We are done with this march,
we don't want to go no further."
"Excuse
me?" Anderson asked sternly.
"Sarge,"
Percell whispered somewhat desperately,
"We are all beat up, we need a break."
"Y’all
listen up now," Anderson said keeping his voice low and even. "You boys are talking insubordination,
mutiny, court martial. I know you are
all tired, so I'm going to do y’all a favor and pretend you never said
it." He paused for a second and
looked around at his men--no one would meet his eye. "Now I'm tired too," Zeke said in a gentler tone, a gross
understatement. "I don't like this
any more than you do, but you and I we're soldiers, we do as we’re
ordered," Anderson said, delivering his standard army line. Pausing for a second he asked, "Any questions?" No one from the squad had anything else to
say.
"Well,
let's all try and get some rest then okay?" The sergeant suggested. None of the men responded, he had not
really expected anyone to.
Sergeant
Anderson felt bad knowing that his men were probably disappointed in him. He was not sure what they really wanted, “probably
just some sympathy,” he guessed.
Whatever it was, it was dangerous and Zeke wanted to make sure it would
not go any further. The men were not
really going to refuse to continue on with the mission (whatever the mission actually
was) or they would have talked to the lieutenant, still their sergeant worried
about them.
Halfway
back to his own position, Anderson realized he had not seen Steven Spencer, and
so despite the protests of his aching back, sore knees and burning feet, he
turned back one more time to check on the private. The sergeant found Spence alone, up on one knee, gun raised,
staring into the jungle.
"Spence," Zeke whispered.
"You mind telling me what you’re doing here by yourself? You planning on staying up all night
Boy?"
"I
didn’t want to be involved in that crap going on Sarge," Spence said. "That crap about telling you we weren't
going no further."
"Well
now Spence I do appreciate that, but that talk's all over now. You can't stay up all night Son, go get one
of the guys to get in there with ya."
Spencer hesitated. "Go on
now,” Anderson ordered gently. Spencer
complied.
"Hey
Sarge," Spencer added, "You know who the luckiest son of bitch in
this unit is?" He didn't wait for
an answer. "Andy. Andy left on day four and here we are, still
out here on day twenty-four."
Zeke
nodded wearily. The sergeant could not
agree more, Andrew Egan was the luckiest son of bitch in Bravo Company.
*****************************
Smiling,
Sergeant Anderson noticed the volume of pissing and moaning was being kept to a
minimum. The complaining had not
stopped completely, but the standard bitching was being held to a more
tolerable level and the sergeant was grateful for the lieutenant’s
outburst.
Uneasiness
crept into Anderson’s thoughts as he slowly recognized that something was
wrong... maybe it was too quiet.
Pausing, the experienced sergeant realized what it was; there was no
noise--no monkeys, no birds, no insects… just stillness. Before Anderson could
get the name “LT” out of his mouth, shots rang out.
“AMBUSH,”
Taylor shouted to the young soldiers, as they dove off the trail and into the
surrounding brush for cover.
Pausing
for a split second, Lieutenant Goldman hit the ground and scrambled into the
jungle. As soon as Myron regained his
senses he began screaming for his RTO.
The lieutenant breathed a sigh of relief that Private Horn had been
right in front him in when the shooting started. “Horn,” he yelled, “Get over
here, NOW!” Getting no response,
Goldman took a minute to look around, trying to spot the normally reliable
RTO. “Where the hell is he?”
Myron worried, wondering if the private had been wounded or worse. Cognizant of the fact that the radio was the
platoons best, and possibly only chance for support, Myron continued shouting,
desperately trying to be heard above the intensity of the firefight
Vaguely
aware that the lieutenant was yelling for him, Private Horn cursed when he
realized that he had ended up on the opposite side of the trail. Conscious that
his platoon was helplessly trapped under the VC guns, a shaking Roger Horn
decided to try and reach the lieutenant.
Myron
caught a glimpse of Horn and the PRC for just an instant, as the private made a
brief appearance before being forced back to the ground by a heavy
concentration of enemy fire. “That’s
not going to work,” Myron conceded, realizing there was no way Charlie was
going to let the RTO cross the trail with the radio. “All right stay there,” the lieutenant yelled. Call in our coordinates, 569 620 79. You got that Horn? 569 620 79.”
With
the noise of the automatic weapons assaulting his senses, Private Horn could
not hear a word his CO was saying. The
RTO did not call in the coordinates; he was not sure where they were. Friendly
fire was just as deadly as the enemy.
Sergeant
Anderson was yelling too. Even though
Myron could not hear what his sergeant was saying, the lieutenant was starting
to get the point. The Viet Cong had
figured out who was in charge and they were concentrating most of their fire at
the LT’s position. Crawling on his
belly, as close to the ground as possible, the lieutenant moved about ten feet
from his original position before stopping.
He did not shout out any more orders—instead Myron laid still and hoped
the enemy would think they had got him.
Zeke
watched intently as the lieutenant finally shut up and stayed quiet. Satisfied that the LT was playing dead, as
opposed to being dead, the sergeant motioned for Johnson to follow him. Anderson
and Johnson inched a little higher up into the thick brush and started
creeping, ever so slowly to their left.
Trying to get past the VC’s position, Zeke hoped to eventually flank the
enemy and take them out. There did not
appear to be too many of them, they just had superior position--higher ground
up a slight ridge on both ends of the trail, keeping second platoon pinned
down.
If
not for Ruiz and Baker working the M-60, the first six men in the column would
already be cut off from the rest of the platoon. As soon as the firefight started, the machine gunner and his
partner had somehow made if up the ridge and were able to keep the enemy off
balance with steady bursts of fire from the powerful machine gun.
Panting
in short rapid breaths, laying face down in the brush, Private Rudy Wasson
shook with fear as he listened to the automatic weapons firing in rhythm with
the throbbing in his ears. Having been
behind Baker in the column, Rudy was closest to the path that the two soldiers
had taken to reach the top of the ridge and on the fringe of where the heaviest
amount of fire was being concentrated.
Paralyzed by the screaming of the bullets whizzing overhead, Rudy had
yet to move. Hugging the ground with
his body, and forcing short breaths of air in and out of his lungs, the
terrified young private slowly started regaining his senses.
Struggling
to ready his weapon, Private Wasson finally managed to get the M-16 out from
under his body and determine where to fire it.
With trembling hands, Rudy decided on an invisible target across the
trail. Aiming and pulling the trigger, he was surprised when nothing
happened. “It must be jammed,”
the private thought in disbelief, positive he had just cleaned the gun this
morning. Checking out the weapon more
thoroughly, Rudy allowed himself a smile at his own stupidity. As the intensity of the firefight roared
around him, Rudy discovered that the M-16 still had the safety on. “I am really not a good soldier,” Rudy
consciously conceded. Putting the gun on full automatic for the first
time since arriving in Vietnam, the seventeen-year-old private fired his rifle
blindly into the trees, along with the rest of his ambushed platoon.
The
noise of the firefight was numbing, making it hard to think and almost
impossible to hear. During a slight
lull in the continuing battle, Baker started yelling for more ammunition. Ruiz quickly joined in with his own
desperate pleas. If the M-60 were to
stop firing, the first six soldiers would not stand much of a chance, trapped
directly in the cross fire of the enemy guns.
Rudy waited anxiously to see which veteran soldier would be brave enough
to make the perilous climb up the ridge to resupply the machine gun.
“Probably
Taylor,”
Rudy thought, remembering how his buddy had single-handedly taken out the two
guards on the previous mission. Rudy
took a deep breath and waited…nobody came.
Remembering he had been behind Baker when the skirmish started, Rudy
slowly realized that he was the closest to the path. The private also noted that he had two
belts of ammo slung over his own shoulders.
Shaking, Rudy wondered if the other soldiers could even hear the machine
gunners frantic pleas. The teenager
cursed his own cowardliness, as his body trembled in fear at the thought of
action, and tears streamed down his boyish face.
Summoning
all the strength he had, Rudy waited for another lull and yelled to Danny
Percell. Percell finally understood and
flung the two belts of ammo he had been carrying as far as could. They landed about ten feet from Rudy. Percell heaved a few more belts Rudy’s
way. Other soldiers must be passing
them down as best they could. Even
though Rudy had seen where the ammo landed he was still unable to move,
completely frozen with fear, the same fear that had rendered the private
helpless on his first two missions.
As
scared as the boy was, he had been firing his weapon nonstop and now realized
it was not actually firing. It hadn’t
been for a quite a while. Rudy felt his
body begin to relax at the thought of his own foolishness and wondered how long
he had been out of ammo. Carefully
reloading the
M-16,
Rudy forced himself to crawl along the ground toward his platoon’s only
hope.
Buoyed
by the fact that he did not appear to be taking any more fire than before, the
young private slowly reached the five belts of precious ammo. Weighing himself down, Rudy retraced his
route back to his original position and added his own ammo to the rest of the
weight draped over him. Rudy found
himself wishing that Taylor of Johnson or one of the other soldiers had ended
up in this position. “Someone
smarter and more courageous …someone who would not shake with fear and
let loose their bladder like a scared little boy.” Saying a silent prayer, Rudy Wasson took a deep breath and
began inching his way up the ridge.
*****************************
Steven Spencer was breathing heavily,
fighting to stay conscious, lying about ten feet from Lieutenant Goldman’s
original position. When the Viet Cong
started firing away at the lieutenant, Spencer was sure his life was over,
instinctively knowing that if he were hit again he would not survive.
The
first shot that had caused Taylor to yell, “ambush” was the same one that had
ripped through Spence’s left shoulder.
It was burning hot and bleeding profusely. Spencer had a towel pressed to the gaping hole, applying as much
pressure as he could, but nothing seemed to be able to stop the flow of blood
draining from his body. Shocked that he
had been hit, Spence knew better than to yell “medic” and give away his
position.
Private
Steven Spencer felt like he might die today, but somehow that did not seem as
frightening as he had imagined it would.
Worst day ever? He remembered Horn asking, the night before this
mission began. “None of us seen that
day yet,” had been Andy’s reply.
Wondering if this would be his worst day, Steven Spencer thought
of his friend. Would Andy have spotted
the ambush? “Probably,” Spence
smiled. Thinking about Andy now, Spence
worried that his friend would feel guilty…he did not want Andy to blame
himself.
Steven
Spencer realized he was going to pass out.
Thinking about the implications of that made the private’s heart beat
faster, and for the first time he felt the fear rising uncontrollably within
him. What if his platoon had to leave
in a hurry and could not find him? What
if they left him here? That was the
most terrifying thought of all. What if
when he came to, he was captured…a prisoner of war? Even if he was dead, he did not want his body left for the VC to
mess with, or worse yet to be ravaged by the flies. Steven Spencer knew what that looked like.
Spence
decided he would risk calling out to the lieutenant. “LT,” he tried to yell, but the words stuck in his throat, he was
too weak…he had waited too long. Steven
Spencer tried one more time before passing out.
*****************************
After
making a few yards of headway, the Viet Cong noticed Private Rudy Wasson
struggling up the ridge with all that ammo and began shooting at him. Rudy jumped off the path and into the brush
for cover. When the firing slowed down,
the frightened private heard Ruiz yelling again. Taking a deep breath, Rudy willed himself back to his feet, and
went another yard or two before being forced once again, to dive into the
brush.
“Get
off that path, Rudy, get the hell out of there.” Sounded like Lieutenant Goldman, Rudy guessed. As Baker pleaded for more ammunition from up
top, Rudy heard his lieutenant’s unmistakable voice from below. “WASSON, STAY DOWN,” the lieutenant yelled
frantically. “THAT’S AN ORDER, STAY
DOWN!”
Rudy
hesitated for just a minute. Knowing
that the lieutenant could not possibly hear Baker and Ruiz from his position,
Rudy made the decision to keep going.
Focusing most of his attention on getting up the ridge, Rudy felt a
twinge of apprehension, worrying about the consequences of disobeying his
lieutenant’s direct order.
From
his vantage point, Lieutenant Goldman had a perfect view of the path that led
to the top of the small hill. Watching
in disbelief and horror, Myron saw his seventeen-year-old grunt, struggling
under the weight of the belts of ammo, set out on his own personal, suicide
mission up the ridge. Seeing the
determined boy, Myron had to force himself from jumping up from his own
position and tackling the foolhardy kid.
The only thing stopping the lieutenant was the certainty of his own
death if he tried to cross that trail.
Ordering
the private to stop had not worked, so Myron was rendered helpless to do
anything but cheer the kid on. Watching
Rudy’s slow progress was agonizing to the platoon leader until he realized that
the boy was all ready half way to the top.
The lieutenant was stunned that the kid had made it that far and allowed
himself a glimmer of hope. Maybe Rudy Wasson, the grunt he had met crying in
the bush, would save them all.
The
M-60 fell silent as Rudy heard a distressed Alberto Ruiz make his last appeal
for ammunition. The VC guns seemed even
louder as Rudy realized his buddies must be getting low on ammo themselves.
Without the support of the machine gun, even the newbie understood what the
outcome of the battle would be. Rudy
vehemently wished he was older, stronger…braver. Lying motionless in the brush, his heart pounding wildly, Rudy
tried to envision what Marcus or the lieutenant would do. They would not just lay here, scared to
death and abandon their friends, that much the private was sure of. Taking deep even breaths to calm his racing
heart, Rudy remembered a prayer his mother had taught him when he was a
kid.
“God,
grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to
change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”
Reciting
the prayer now conjured up images of the boy’s mom, dad and sisters. For the first time since arriving in
Vietnam, the young private could see his family’s faces clearly.
Unexpectedly,
Rudy heard his father’s comforting voice, “You can do it Son, come on Rudy
you can do it, get back up.”
As
bullets screeched through the air around him, Rudy closed his eyes and found
himself back in North Dakota. The
deafening noise of the battle faded to the background as Rudy recalled his
father’s words of encouragement. He was
seven years old again and embarrassed that he was the only kid in his
neighborhood that had not mastered riding his two-wheeler. Being the last of
his friends to learn, Rudy recalled his humiliation. “I can’t do it, I’ll never learn,” the seven year old had
proclaimed through his tears. Rudy
smiled now, remembering how his Dad had gone out with him every night, under
the cover of darkness, for two weeks, until he had finally rode the new bike.
Beaming
with pride, his father had told any one that would listen how determined Rudy
had been. “No matter how many times
he fell off that bike, he would get back up and try again,” Dad would
say. Rudy realized now that it had not
been determination to ride the bike…it had been his determination to make his
dad proud of him…“I can do this.”
With
a renewed spirit, Rudy determined not to jump off the path every few steps, but
instead, throwing caution to the wind, he would risk it all and make one
sustained run to the top, in his effort to reach Ruiz and Baker. Calmly repeating his mom’s prayer, and
listening to his dad’s words of pride, the frightened boy made a desperate,
frantic, last-ditch attempt to resupply the M-60.
The
kid had been down so long that Lieutenant Goldman worried that Rudy had been
hit. Myron could only watch helplessly
as the boy sprang up and began his wild ascent up the hill. This time, the lieutenant was not yelling
for the kid to stop, the kid was fast becoming the platoons only hope and
unconsciously Myron heard himself yelling, “Come on Rudy. Come on.”
The
Viet Cong must have thought that they had gotten the soldier too because Rudy
covered a lot of ground before the shooting started up again. Once the enemy realized what was happening,
it seemed like they were all taking aim at the teenager from North Dakota. Myron held his breath as he watched Rudy
disappear behind the trees near the top.
Not sure what had happened, the lieutenant was relieved to hear the M-60
come to life again. Ruiz let loose a
sustained barrage of fire, concentrating his efforts on the machine gun that
had been doing the most damage to second platoon.
“Wait
a minute, Rue,” Baker said. Ruiz could
not seem to stop firing. “Rue,” Baker
said again, this time giving his partner a gentle shove. “Hold on, listen.” Ruiz stopped firing, as a smile of surprise and relief came over
his face. The air still cracked with
some stray AK 47’s and M-16’s, but the enemy machine gun in the key position,
on the opposite ridge had gone silent.
Baker strained across the ridge to see what had happened and let loose a
howl of laughter. “It’s Sarge and
Johnson,” he exclaimed. The
concentration of fire at the enemy’s position had been just enough of a
distraction to allow Anderson and Johnson to make their move, and take out the
VC gun team.
Ruiz
and Baker turned to Rudy. “You did it
kid. You saved us,” Ruiz said
excitedly. Rudy had been sitting on the
ground, passing the ammo to Baker who in turn was feeding it to Rue. Rudy still had two belts of ammo wrapped
around his body as he gave his friends a smile.
“Guys,”
Rudy said, still smiling. “I think I’m
hit.”
“Okay, well let’s take a look,” Ruiz answered
calmly. Gently lifting the remaining
ammo off of the teenager revealed a huge, ever-expanding bloodstain on the
front of Rudy’s fatigues. Ruiz gently
laid the boy down and opened his shirt.
“Get Doc,” Ruiz mouthed to Baker, trying to control the emotion in his
voice. Alberto Ruiz had not been in
country long, but even he knew it was nothing short of miraculous to survive a
gut shot wound like Rudy’s. Actually
Rudy had been shot several times, and each small hole was bleeding freely. Rudy and Ruiz’s eyes locked as they stared
at each other, needing no words.
Lieutenant
Goldman was making his way up the path, adrenaline still pumping, anxious to
congratulate Rudy on his heroic effort.
“I think I’ll put the kid in for a medal,” Myron decided. The excitement was short lived as Myron
reached the top of the ridge and saw the boy lying on the ground, in a pool of
his own blood. “Doc?” Myron asked
shakily. Doc shook his head, as the
lieutenant’s adrenaline rush stopped abruptly. Feeling more like he had been kicked in the stomach, Myron got
down on the ground next to the wounded boy, and unable to find his voice
whispered, “How you doing Rudy?”
“Sorry
Sir,” Rudy whispered back.
Myron
shook his head, still unable to speak.
I
was so s s scared,” the private continued, grabbing the lieutenant’s hand.
“Just
hang on, we are going to get you out of here.
Just hang on,” Myron pleaded.
Rudy
squeezed his lieutenant’s hand and tried to say something. Myron leaned closer. “I know I’m not a very good soldier,
Lieutenant,” the boy confessed in a whisper.
“I’m just not very…brave, Sir.”
Rudy squeezed Myron’s hand again.
This time Myron squeezed back and felt the young soldiers hand go limp
in his own.
Lieutenant
Goldman knew that his men were watching him, but still could not seem to let go
of the boy’s hand. Gazing at the
lifeless body of Rudy Wasson, Myron recalled his first encounter with the boy
soldier. It had been out in the field,
on the kid’s first mission that he had met Private Wasson, scared and crying in
the bush. Thinking back, Myron
remembered how the kid’s eyes were the first to register confidence in him as a
lieutenant and a platoon leader. It was the first time Myron had seen that look
of trust, and he had desperately wanted to prove to kid and to himself that it
was not misplaced.
Painfully,
Myron heard the words the private had uttered to him that day. “I…I…j j just want to go home Sir,” the
boy had stammered. Somehow, Myron had
foolishly thought that he had could make that happen. “Yeah, it happened all right,” the
officer emotionally acknowledged.
Looking at the silent boy now, the lieutenant briefly recognized his own
helplessness. He could be the best
officer in the world and make all the right decisions, but in the end, he would
never have control over the powers of chance and circumstance and ultimately,
of death. With his head pounding, the
twenty-two year old lieutenant thought of his men and wondered what fate
awaited them all.
It
was Percell who finally broke the silence.
“Where is Spence?” he asked quietly, still staring at Rudy and the
lieutenant.
That
seemed to snap the platoon and its leader back to reality, as Myron reluctantly
let go of the boy’s hand to attend to the situation. Johnson was starting to
remember. “He was right in front of me
when the shooting started. I remember
thinking that he had tripped, and that’s when all hell broke loose.”
“Where
was that Johnson?” LT asked.
“Over
there,” Marvin pointed, not really sure.
“He was right behind you Lieutenant.”
They
searched the area where the LT had taken cover. “Medic, medic,” Horn yelled finding Spence lying in the brush.
The men crowded around … waiting. Doc
nervously checked for a pulse and found one.
“He’s alive,” he announced to the relieved group of soldiers.
Lieutenant
Goldman got on the radio and requested a dust off. The tech on the other end told him that it would be about a two-hour
wait--all the dust offs were committed. The lieutenant went nuts. “I don’t give a fuck,” he yelled. “I’ve got a man wounded down here. He’s lost a lot of blood. I want that dust off. I want it FIRST. I want it NOW. You got
that?”
The
tech seemed a little startled. “Yes
Sir,” he replied hastily. “I’ll see
what I can do.” Fifteen minutes later a
medivac choppered out Spence and Doc and the body of Rudy Wasson. An hour after that, the hueys came in to
take the shaken platoon back to Ladybird.
Exiting
the huey, the exhausted soldiers of third squad silently made their way to the
barracks. Marcus Taylor felt an
unfamiliar tightness in his stomach, and a lump forming in his throat, as he
spotted Rudy’s lonely bunk. The boy’s
cot was still littered with the excess supplies Marcus had hastily removed from
the kid’s overloaded ruck twenty-five days ago. “You don’t need all that crap,” Taylor had patiently
explained. “It’s just too damn
heavy.” Rudy had responded with the
same innocent, appreciative smile that had so endeared him to his squad.
Looking
at the worthless gear now, Marcus Taylor swallowed hard and acknowledged his
lost. Vietnam made for some strange
friendships to develop and Taylor recognized the odd uniqueness of this one…a
black, two-bit hood from Detroit, babysitting a naïve, small town hick from
North Dakota, fighting an ambiguous war--thousands of miles from home. Taylor was certain he would never meet
another human being with the child-like innocence that was Rudy Wasson, not in
Vietnam and certainly not back in the world, on the streets of Detroit. “And if I do,” the street wise Taylor
promised, remembering the kid’s smile, “I
will get as far away as I can.”
Trying
to maintain control, the normally smooth Taylor made his way to Rudy’s
bunk. Staring at the gear haphazardly
strewn about, Taylor picked a stray battery off the deceased private’s cot and
felt his mood shift from depression to an uncontrollable rage.
Fingering
the extra battery, Marcus turned suddenly and flung it, as hard as he could at
the tent wall behind the makeshift bed.
“Why didn’t you just stay down?” Taylor yelled. The tantrum gathering steam, Marcus next
grabbed Rudy’s flashlight and threw that as well. The “wall” rippled slightly and made a muted thump as the
flashlight hit its mark and slid down the heavy canvas to join the
battery. Deliberately picking up one
item at a time, using all the strength he could muster, Marcus furiously heaved
each one.
The
rest of the guys watched Taylor’s outburst in tense silence until Rudy’s gear
was piled in an angry heap behind the kid’s cot. Winding down, Taylor spotted the last object, an empty can of bug
spray, and half-heartedly threw it into the pile. “Why didn’t you just stay down?” Marcus repeated, not quite as
loud. This time adding, “You stupid
kid.”
Breathing
heavily, Taylor stood motionless at the foot of Rudy’s bunk, staring blankly
past the pile of discarded items.
Marvin Johnson tried to think of something comforting to say to his
friend, but could not seem to come up with anything. Instead, Johnson awkwardly placed a hand on Marcus’s shoulder,
effectively snapping his distraught buddy out of his daze. Marcus immediately pulled away. “It don’t mean nothin’ Marvin,” he spat, heading
for the doorway. “It don’t mean a
fucking thing.”
Taylor
practically ran over a stunned Andrew Egan on his way out. Andy froze, staring at the pile of trashed
gear surrounding Rudy Wasson bunk and knew for certain that the kid from North
Dakota had not survived his twenty fifth day in the jungle. “Worst day ever,” Andy thought,
breaking out in a sweat. Choking back
his emotions, Andrew Egan gathered his courage and whispered, “Where is
Spence?”
“He
got hit,” Horn explained, as Andy held his breath and waited for the bottom
line. “He’s not dead…they are probably
going to fly him into Chu Lai,” the RTO reported.
Feeling
guilty, Andrew Egan exhaled a sigh of relief and hurriedly threw some of his
own gear into his pack. “How bad?” he
whispered calmly.
Horn
shrugged. “ Well, I’m not a doctor or anything, but I’d say that buddy of yours
has got himself a ticket home.”
“And Rudy?”
Andy asked, already knowing the answer, but still needing to hear the
words.
“The
kid didn’t make it,” Ruiz obliged.
Andy
nodded and grabbed his ruck, hoping to catch a chopper into Chu Lai to check on
his friend.
“It’s
true what they say ain’t it?” Percell whispered. “The good die young.”
Horn
disagreed. “This is the Nam,
Danny. Everyone dies young.”
*****************************
Sergeant
Anderson went directly to Graves Registration to check on the deceased Private
Wasson. With so many mix-ups, the
sergeant wanted to be sure everything was tagged correctly. Checking the name on the body bag, Anderson
unzipped it and saw Rudy. “I am sorry
Son,” he whispered quietly. “We all
are.” Zeke took one last look at the
silent boy from North Dakota and then hurried to join his lieutenant for the
inevitable briefing.
Glancing
around the room, Anderson saw no sign of Captain Wallace; instead the
lieutenant was briefing Major Rigby on the events of the past twenty-five days
and more importantly, on today’s actions.
Goldman was standing at ease in front of the major’s desk as Anderson
gave both officers a salute and stood beside his lieutenant. Only the major returned the salute.
Studying
Goldman’s face, Zeke noted the set jaw and darting eyes as the distraught
lieutenant licked his lips and struggled to maintain his composure. The sergeant was all too familiar with the
mannerisms of his lieutenant … Myron Goldman was clearly upset.
“At
ease Sergeant,” Major Rigby said.
Myron
all but interrupted him. “The major was
just congratulating me on the mission Sergeant,” he stated.
Zeke
nodded slightly, not sure what was expected of him. “What do say Anderson…you feel like celebrating?” Myron
mocked. Zeke took a nervous glance at
the major before turning his attention back to the lieutenant.
Myron’s
voice was full of anger and emotion that he was fighting to keep in check. The sarcasm was not lost on the major. “You watch your step, Lieutenant,” he said,
standing up. “I’m going to cut you some
slack because you lost a man today but you will not address me in that manner
again. Is that clear?” The major glared at the lieutenant. Myron glared back.
Zeke
decided to rescue his lieutenant. “Sir,
could I say something here?”
“What
is it Sergeant?” Major Rigby asked without taking his eyes off Lieutenant
Goldman.
“Well
Sir, when we policed up those bodies we found a lot of maps and papers that
Command should be real happy about.”
“I
already know that Sergeant,” the Major said, sounding annoyed. “Do either of
you have anything else?”
“No
Sir,” Zeke said, saluting, hoping that his lieutenant would do the same. Myron did…slowly.
Once
outside the lieutenant turned on Anderson.
“I did not need your help in there Sergeant,” he said angrily. Zeke could only stare at him in disbelief. “Did you hear me Anderson?” Goldman
demanded.
“Whatever
you say Sir,” Zeke answered wearily.
“Don’t
you patronize me like you do those stupid majors and colonels.”
Anderson
stayed quiet.
“Well
Sergeant?” The lieutenant persisted.
Zeke
had no idea what the lieutenant wanted.
He did not even think the LT had asked him a question. “Would this day ever end?” the
sergeant wondered.
“Well
Sir,” Zeke said quietly. “ It’s been a
long day. I’m going to get on back to
my tent now and turn in.”
“Sergeant,”
Myron said, grabbing Anderson’s arm.
Zeke turned, not knowing how much more of this his mind and body could
tolerate.
“Zeke,”
the LT said softly, using the sergeant’s given name. “I’m sorry. Come back to
my hootch and have a drink with me…I mean that’s not an order, I am asking.”
“All
right Sir,” Zeke reluctantly agreed.
The
two men drank in silence. “Sergeant,” the lieutenant finally said, more
emotional that Zeke could ever remember seeing him. “What am I going to say to that kid’s parents?” Rubbing his hand through his dirty hair the
lieutenant continued. “I just want them
to know that we cared…I don’t want them to think that we didn’t care.”
“Just
tell them that then, Sir,” Zeke answered firmly. “Tell them that.” An hour later, an exhausted Sergeant
Anderson lay down on his bunk but was unable to sleep.
Some
days, the
sergeant acknowledged, the Nam just ate you alive. Sometimes, Anderson thought of the Nam as
being alive--a living breathing thing.
On days like today, Zeke thought that the war wouldn’t end until there
was not a man left standing…no NVA, no VC, no Americans, only the jungle, the
insects and the sun. Nothing but the
damn Nam, mocking them all…laughing.
*********************************
“…The issue of course, was courage. How to behave. Whether to flee or fight or seek an accommodation. The issue was not fearlessness. The issue was how to act wisely in spite of
fear. He believed this. And he believed the obvious corollary: the greater a man’s fear, the greater his
potential courage.”
Tim O’Brien (Going after Cacciato)
The
following award is announced:
United
States Army, Military Assistance Command Vietnam
Award: Silver Star
Date
of Action: June
22, 1967
Theater: Vietnam
Authority: By direction of the President of the United States
Private Wasson’s display of heroism and devotion to duty without regard for his own life, are in keeping with the highest traditions of the military service and reflect great credit upon himself, his unit and the United States army.