The Path

When it finally happens and it's over,

As you stand there and think—

Something so mutilated can't be human

So it was dead enough without this

But even here there is beauty

A small flowered patch of ground, a bird's call

And the grace of a butterfly

Frustration and disappointment

Become a laughable thing

But always the conflicting emotions to smile

Or say the hell with it and cry

—SP4 Bob Jackson. The Hell with It. (1970)

 In early December, we left Firebase Jamie with orders for a combat assault. Artillery subjected the LZ (landing zone) with high explosives to flatten the jungle. CS (tear gas) was not used.

A Huey is the greatest invention since the wheel. It gets you to ground where there are no roads or rails, which is most everywhere. The next morning, five Hueys landed thirty feet apart on Jamie's dirt strip and began inserting us into the LZ, not too awfully far away.

 Landings are high speed—choppers touchdown barely a few seconds before lifting off. We scrambled out and made a bee line for the wood line, forming into platoons until the whole company arrived. From there, we worked our way into the jungle, breaking bush all morning. In the afternoon, we came upon a meandering path. As each platoon crossed, flank guards were posted. Once the platoon was across, the guards scurried to catch up. Our platoon was last. The bush was thick, limiting our vision to twenty-five feet. Lt. Martinez picked Sam, our entertainer, and me, to guard the right. “Beware. Friendlies are patrolling in front of you.”

We followed the procedure and peeled off twenty feet to the right, behind bushes. Sam was two feet ahead. I remember it like yesterday. Sam opened up with a few swift rounds from his M16, scarin' the livin’ shit outta me! “My God, are we shooting friendlies?”

 He yelled back, “No, no, this is enemy!”

 “Are you sure?”

 He screamed,  “Take my spot! My gun jammed!”

They told us in basic, “Never point a gun at anyone unless you mean to shoot him. And if you do shoot him, you better make sure he's dead. 'Cause if he ain't dead, he's gonna shoot you.” Even so, it required a few moments to come up, slip the selector on my M16 to semi and snap off a three-round burst.

“Faster!”

I couldn't see. Sam grabbed my weapon. “Let go. Take my gun. Fix it. Fix it!” he screamed. Sam had the better view. He had seen the threatening shape and acquired the target, an NVA (North Vietnamese Army) officer in black pajamas, moving toward us thirty feet away. Sam held my gun on him, ripping the air apart, pumping through magazines like murder. If there were any more, they had already dropped.

 To kill, you have to move fast.

 Another one of ours came running up mouthing the shit about friendlies and plopped to the ground with his M60 on a bipod. I had Sam's gun ready, but he grabbed the M60, mowing the jungle like grass with 100-round belts. Bob, who had been guarding the left flank, came over and opened up. 

When the firing stopped, Killer, a highly respected old-timer, rose from the dirt and walked ahead with two guys from his squad. 

 Is this what we're fighting for? A bloody pile of raw hamburger you could wash away with a garden hose? Nothing alive anywhere. The smell of death everywhere. Bits and pieces scattered all over the place. A devilish initiation. Shocking. Terrible. 

Life wasn’t so shiny anymore.

I don't like killing. I thought today was going to be a good day. My guts went cold—a minute later and it might have been us. Sam was silent. Killer collected maps, documents, an AK-47 and an aluminum belt buckle. He gave me the buckle, a rite of passage that I still have. “After the first kill, every kill makes you feel better.” His men threw dirt on the site to keep flies away. 

This was no time to relax and count our blessings. Capt. Jackson radioed that our platoon would stay here overnight on the bloody path. The rest of the company would push ahead and set up in the jungle. We set a perimeter with flares and Claymores, dug bunkers for cover and clocked our weapons. Killer's squad was on our right, fifteen feet from the remains, an unnatural conjunction of the living and the dead. Any shreds of romance or chivalry were banished forever.

We slept alfresco, as usual; each of us would pull an hour of guard. In the middle of the moonless night, POP, a flare tripped. All was quiet until the flare had almost burned out. Then the Claymore blew, too late to do any damage. The guard either had trouble finding the clacker or hit it after the flare woke him.

We had a hole in our perimeter—no trip flare, no Claymore; a blind spot and too dark to chance a reset. The enemy could waltz right in! For the rest of the night, I could taste the stress.

The man's family and friends will hate us. Are they coming back for the body or for us? Are we bait on a hook?

Nothing happened. Morning came. We sent out a patrol and rejoined the company at their camp nearby.

I was beginning to understand that every decision, every move by my mates could mean life or death. I changed my mind on Killer, too. If I got in a jam, he would surely come for me if he were alive. I took out the belt buckle and turned it over in my hands. The man didn't do anything to die for. Cough and choking spells plagued me each night for the next week. I talked to God. Doc Walsh gave me a bottle of cough medicine and the man stopped coming in my dreams: I felt war. I was learning to be a soldier, hard and fast.