|
Two-six, you will hold your position as third platoon passes
through. Then you board the second sortie. The LZ should be cool
by then. Coordinate with and pass through the two patrols from
third platoon. Head northwest from hill 270 and set up a command
post on the south side of this ridgeline (as he pointed to the
location on the map for our new CP, about 1.5 kilometers from our
proposed LZ).
One-six you will board the last sortie. Once you reach hill 270,
move immediately to meet up with two-six. You will be our lead
element on the blocking force. I will be with two-six initially,
until we establish our CP, and then I'll proceed with first
platoon. Three-six, once you leave the LZ you will pass through
our CP location and be prepared to assist one-six with the
mission. Two-six, secure the new CP area for the duration, and be
prepared to move up in reserve if necessary.
"We are definitely screwed," Wagner added as he tossed his map case
on the ground.
So much for the blocking force I
thought. It appeared we were in for some bad times today. Some
turkey shoot. I wondered who would be the targets now. American
turkeys!
We scrambled back to our platoons and prepared for
the move. The typical bitching and moaning could be heard from all
directions. It was one of those times
when you just had to suck it up. You have to take the bad with the
good, but when do the good things start? Sometimes things just
went from bad to worse.
The airlift was successful from PZ to LZ; no enemy contact. We
secured a command post about one kilometer from the LZ and Captain
Mac called us together at the CP. There to meet us were several
members from brigade headquarters; all with long faces and somber
looks.
It was so easy to pick out the REMFs
(rear echelon mother fuckers; the grunts nickname for that
majority of folks who spent their year at war in the rear area,
away from the fighting, away from the bush and all the
discomforts, and especially away from the constant fear).
Two guys from brigade stood there with clean and pressed uniforms
and shiny boots, with colorful unit patches and rank insignia.
Those from Battalion wore clean uniforms and boots, but had
subdued unit markings and rank insignia.
Our guys were just as easy to
distinguish from the rest; you could smell them from 20 feet away
and see the damp, dirty, and tattered uniforms. Weatherworn faces
and hunched-over backs were telltale signs of field grunts. And
you couldn't tell a Lieutenant from a new private; and least not
from looking at the faces and the uniforms. This was a measure of
self-preservation for leaders in the field. Enemy snipers would
much rather take out a Lieutenant or a Sergeant than a simple
grunt. That would be a more effective method disruption.
Most noticeable in the group was Brigade Chaplain, Colonel Klayer.
I had never seen a chaplain in the
field. I wondered what he was doing here?
"Okay, let's sit down over here," Captain Mac began to organize
his pow-wow. "Things have gotten worse for 1-61. We have to move
quickly to help them break contact. I won't shit you. This won't
be easy. We are ordered to hit hill 322 from the rear and pound
our way up to 328 here (as he pointed on the map). There is a
reinforced NVA company on that hill and they won't budge. They are
dug in along the ridge in trenches with overhead cover. Charlie,
1-61 is caught between 322 and 328; right about here (he indicated
their position on the south side of the ridge). We are going to
prep (artillery fire) 322 and then 1-6 (us) will hit it from the
rear on the north slope. One-six, you have to break hill 322
quickly, 1-61 is pinned down and they need a medevac as soon as
possible. They have some serious wounded and we've got to get them
out of there."
Mac continued, "Father Klayer will hold a quick service for all of
us. "Just a benediction," he assured, "non-denominational. There
will be a group confession and a general absolution for the
Catholic boys, and then we will have to move out".
General Absolution! . . . Awesome. I
thought about old St. James and my many years of parochial
education. General Absolution . . . I always equated that term
with things like the last rites. What the hell do they expect up
there on the hill? Is this some kind of suicide mission?
As I pushed myself to climb the hill where Chaplain Klayer began
his gathering, Captain Mac came over and put his arm around me and
said, "I'll be with you all the way 1-6".
Wait a minute, I thought. This is getting more
serious every minute. Something is not right here. We have been on
too many missions, too many moves, too many firefights for me to
fall for this nonchalance amidst all the surrounding ritual. The
fear and apprehension were beginning to peak inside of me. I could
see the questions and deep anxiety in my platoon as they climbed
the hill behind me. It reminded me of basic training, not knowing
what to expect and finding yourself in a long line with doctors
giving you shots in both arms as you move along; like someone
pushing you into an abnormal existence. You move with the crowd
while thinking all the time what is next? I remembered Fort
Gordon, Georgia. I reported for duty and my shot records were not
with my other paperwork. There I was, back in line getting a
barrage of shots in both arms; holding back the useless protests.
After all, who would listen? Just move along like cattle to the
slaughter. I remember both arms swollen and bleeding from the air
guns forcing the fluids. It hurt like hell and both arms were
bleeding; and for no reason. I already had those shots. From then
on I kept close account of those shot records. Now all that seemed so trivial. We’re not
talking about a stinging in the arms here. That same numb feeling
began to come over us though. That much was comparable. I was even
more scared.
"Captain; what are we going into up there. Are we the sacrifice?"
I asked.
Continued on page 4 |
