June, 22 1968: Loh-Binh, LZ Dog
An Infantry Captain Peter DeMaria grows restless with his duties, and decides
to go into a Vietnamese strip bar for a night. He meets a young, attractive
American woman there, and gets well acquainted with her. The captain manages to
sneak her behind the strip bar, and then sexually harasses her. Little does he
know, she is his Lieutenant General Anderwoski’s daughter. Anderwoski happens
to be DeMaria’s commanding officer.
Anderwoski hears of this harassment, but if the rest of the “Brass” finds out
that one of his finest officers and best friends has just assaulted his
daughter, he would be severely disgraced. Anderwoski makes a deal with DeMaria
to send him on a mission that would achieve the dreams of many American G.I.s in
Vietnam – to assassinate Ho-Chin-Minh. This mission is too good to be true, but
Intelligence has received barely enough reports and confirmations to validate
this mission. Anderwoski pulls a few strings, and forces DeMaria to comply with
his terms.
DeMaria is sent off with his whole company, and deposited in a safe village a
few miles from Hanoi, where Ho-Chin-Minh was due to make an appearance. They
are given the best equipment, but only found themselves with deep doubts about
the integrity of the mission and the worth that they were to accomplish. During
the first night, the company is extremely disgruntled, hearing about how DeMaria
was assigned this mission and what he did to deserve this. The rumor being
passed is that Anderwoski deliberately sent DeMaria on this mission to die, and
his whole company would suffer for it. The company had already lost a few men
to VC sniper fire, although they managed to take down each and every one of the
snipers. DeMaria had a extremely cheerful mood, for some reason, and cracks
jokes out of everything, including about his men dying. That sends his men in
to a raging fury.
Nevertheless, a few G.I.s manage to hold spirit together, and convince the
company that if this was actually Ho-Chin-Minh, they would’ve finally hit the
jackpot and help end this war. For once they would be doing something that
would contribute to a result in this God-forsaken war.
The company advances, and hits a VC loyal village. They line up the
inhabitants, then rob them of their possessions, food, and dignity. They kill
all the inhabitants in cold-blood, anger, and confusion of what they are about
to do in their forthcoming mission. They slaughter the elderly, torture the
men, rape the women, and tie up the children. The company hides out in the
village for another night, preparing to enter Hanoi undercover with Vietnamese
clothing stolen from the village.
Once entering Hanoi, they find the city very sleepy, as most of the people are
down at the central park area, where Ho-Chin-Minh was due to make a speech. It
looks like the mission was for real, after all. The company regains morale, and
prepares for High Noon when Ho-Chin-Minh was going to make his appearance. The
company deploys all over the nearly deserted city, hijacking as many VC tanks as
they could from under the VC’s noses. They deploy guards and watches, and
finally an HQ.
Through all this chaos, Master Sergeant Sean McCoy sneaks out from the ranks
and enters a Vietnamese Military Bar. He fits in, and does some reconnaissance
with the local inhabitants. Sitting there for many hours, he finally hears
something that will shock the whole company beyond recovery.
Meanwhile, Private Jenkins, the best marksman in the company deploys onto a
bell tower that has a clear view of the central park. He readies his rifle and
. . .
Jenkins peered deeper into his scope.
The enthusiastic soldiers seemed to grow more restless. They were starting to
mingle amongst themselves; their once stiff ranks at attention had melted away
into a giant sea of green uniforms. Then, a yelling officer came into the large
courtyard, shouting loud orders in Vietnamese. The ranks re-materialized and
they stood back to attention. The officer barked out another set of orders, and
the ranks turned to face the crudely made stage at the edge of the courtyard.
Jenkins intensified his grip on the rifle. He flexed his fingers on the stock
of his weapon, loosening his fingers. He could feel the prickling of sweat on
his forehead. The moment was coming, he could feel it in the air, in his chest.
His platoon had sacrificed most of its lives to get him here, to bring him near
the courtyard where there would be a speech delivered by the enemy leader. He
had lugged around this heavy rifle around with him halfway through hell, he had
endured the jungle rot with all those damned days that were soggy. The blood
that his platoon had shed would not be in vain, he swore it not be so.
Through his scope, Jenkins could see a clouded figure appear on the stage. He
reached a nervous, shaky hand up to the scope, and twisted the view into focus.
The clouded figure became crystal clear, and he saw the man that he was here to
kill. It was Ho-Chin-Minh himself, with brown fatigues, and half bald head
appearing through the scope. Jenkins cocked his rifle ready. The old man was
huddled over by bodyguards, and he was thickly protected, except from the
direction that Jenkins was firing from. It was perfect.
Jenkins took a moment glance out of his scope and judge the distance from him
to his target. He squinted hard to see the communist leader on the makeshift
stage. Jenkins dead-reckoned that it was a little less than a mile from his
bell tower to the Communist leader. He returned to his sight, and nudged the
barrel alongside the leader’s head. By this time, Ho-Chin-Minh had begun an
angry tirade that boomed out to Jenkins’s sniping post. The hairline crosshairs
aligned with the leader’s head. Jenkins judged by instinct, he could never
really tell if the bullet was going to hit from such a distance. But, this
time, Jenkins got the sniper’s break, he was allotted the “Light Fifty” Barrett
from the quartermaster. This bullet’s flying time could waste about anything
within a mile radius, just as long as the sniper could aim that well. The
recoil of this rifle was a nut kicker, would knock him backwards whenever it
discharged.
Jenkins took his eyes away from the scope once more, only this time to check to
see if his platoon sergeant had gave him the ready signal. When Jenkins was to
take the shot, the remainder of the platoon had to set up for a quick get-away.
Half the Viet-Cong would be after them in about five minutes if they didn’t get
a move on. Not to mention, with Ho-Chin-Minh being shot, they would also be
pissed off. It was absolutely imperative that Jenkins took the shot after the
platoon was ready to escape.
Jenkins looked down at the street corner, where two dirt roads intersected. The
street was completely deserted, all the inhabitants gone to hear the speech from
their leader. The stores in the buildings had almost been completely demolished
by bombings. There was wood and debris strewn all along the rough, dirt road.
A lone figure turned the corner of the street. He stopped and looked up to
Jenkins. It was the platoon lieutenant. He was giving Jenkins a “thumbs-up”.
The platoon was ready for the escape. Now it was his turn to do his duty. For
his platoon, for his nation, for God. Heaven forbid that he come all this way
to fail, and miss his target. Jenkins knew that he could only pull off two
shots before Ho-Chin-Minh would disappear to safety. So each one of them had to
count. His training, and his experience all amounted to this event of a
lifetime. Jenkins took a deep breath, and peered intensely into his sight.
Unblinkingly, he gingerly lined up the crosshairs over the little man’s head.
Ho-Chin-Minh was delivering such a forceful speech, that his head was jerking up
and down with each syllable. It would be safer to aim at his chest, Jenkins
decided.
He brought the crosshairs down to the communist leader’s chest. It was more of
a stable target. God, he wished Tilles was here. If Tilles had acted as the
spotter, Jenkins wouldn’t have to take so long to line up the shot. Jenkins
shut his eyes momentarily, suddenly overwhelmed with his responsibility. He
was a sniper, an excellent sniper, one who was assigned to assassinate
Ho-Chin-Minh, and probably the only sniper ever to have the chance to attempt
it. If he failed, the whole of Vietnam could be swallowed in Communism. Why
did he have to have this responsibility? Why couldn’t he be just a normal
soldier, going through the whorehouses at LZ Dog?
Jenkins took several deep breaths and calmed his heart. He reopened his eyes,
and lined up the sight again, slightly above Ho-Chin-Minh’s chest. He would
have to do it. It was his duty. Jenkins muttered a prayer:
May my enemies not triumph over me;
Lord guide my hands to be adept and agile;
Give me strength, Give me courage;
Grant me wisdom, Grant me power . . .
Finishing up his prayer, Jenkins pulled the trigger.
The rifle recoiled back into Jenkins’s shoulder, and discharged with a
powerful, BANG! Then, there was a silent moment, as the bullet traveled to the
target. The moment of truth.
Through his sight, Jenkins could see Ho-Chin-Minh topple backwards, on to the
stage. The bodyguards surrounded their master, and they bent down to aid him.
In disbelief, Jenkins saw Ho-Chin-Minh rise up again, and his bodyguards
supported him. The soldiers had begun to riot into a sea of chaos, running out
of the courtyard in large, disorganized herds.
Jenkins quickly pushed out the .50 caliber shell in the chamber, and the next
one clicked into place. Placing the crosshairs on the bodyguard who was
blocking his line of sight to Ho-Chin-Minh, he fired again. A bullet was sent
rocketing through the air, striking the guard square in the back, and his spine
erupted with red, and he collapsed. Ho-Chin-Minh fell to the ground, and
Jenkins had another clear shot.
The sniper pushed the bolt, and pumped the shell out of the chamber again, and
it clinked against the tower’s flooring. Jenkins took aim at the communist
leader’s head, and he pulled the trigger. The bullet flew wildly and struck a
guard in the knee, exploding it off of his thigh. He tumbled to the ground,
screaming. Jenkins pumped the next shell into place, and fired again with less
discretion. He hit another guard, huddling over his fallen leader. Jenkins
pushed the next shell into the chamber, and placed the crosshairs over
Ho-Chin-Minh’s lying body. He fired. Through the scope, another hit registered
with another guard, splattering his guts all over Ho-Chin-Minh.
“Shit, goddamn it.” Jenkins managed to curse. He pumped in the next shell,
and aimed carefully. The leader was being lifted again, towards safety; but
Jenkins wasn’t about to allow that to happen. Jenkins could feel the heavy
weight of responsibility descend on his shoulders. All of a sudden, Private
William Jenkins was flashed back to his childhood. He remembered a scene from
little league, when the ball was flung towards him. He was the catcher, and a
runner was sprinting straight towards the homeplate. The runner was halfway
between the third base, and the homeplate, and Jenkins had the ball to either
tag him, or toss the ball back to third. It was his judgement, it was his own
call because he had the ball in his hands – he had the responsibility and power.
Jenkins made the impulsive decision to fling the ball back to third. The runner
had saw this move coming, and he ran straight to homeplate without further
delay, scoring a point for his own team. Jenkins screwed over his reputation
and his pride, because of the terrible yet great responsibility passed on to
him. He vowed to himself that the wouldn’t make the same mistake again .
Private Jenkin’s mind flashed straight back into his scope, and regained his
mind. He muttered a prayer:
Lord, bless me with strength, courage and wisdom;
Guide my hands to be true.
Another shell was sent spiraling towards the leader with inhuman accuracy. The
bullet found its mark, and Ho-Chin-Minh’s head popped into a blossoming red.
His guards dropped the body abruptly, as if dropping a dirty rag in a trash can.
They scurried away from the body.
”What the hell?” The sniper frowned.
The guards seemed to be leaving the dead body, and walking over to the building
behind the stage. They ran inside the stone building, and they disappeared for
a moment. The whole courtyard was deserted now, the soldiers all ran in fear
and cowardly sense. Then there was a deadly silence, the only bodies left in
the courtyard were of a few dead guards, and a fallen communist leader.
All of a sudden, through a window on the stone building, there was a figure
clad in the same brown fatigue as Ho-Chin-Minh. Jenkins looked closely at the
person standing through the thick glass. He focused his sight, and confirmed
his deepest doubts. The figure inside the building was Ho-Chin-Minh. The
person onstage, was a puppet, a decoy! Jenkins cursed loudly to himself, and
took aim at the window and futilely expended a round. It bounced off the window
like a tennis ball.
* * * *
Corporal John Timmons counted the shots. There were seven, way too many for a
safe situation. The VC was bound to have caught were those shots were coming
from and they would be swarming over Jenkins like flies over a carcass. So much
for a quiet assassination.
A lone figure clad in rags turned the corner. He was jogging urgently towards
Timmons. The corporal rose his M-16 to bear.
“Watch where you aiming that thing, corporal!” A loud voice boomed from the
rags. It was Master Sergeant McCoy, undercover.
“McCoy! No, I mean Sergeant! Jesus! Where have you been? Lieutenant
Horrace’s been looking all around for you since 0740 hours, he’ll be pretty
pissed off about not being able to find you for so damn long!” Corporal Timmons
reported.
“Corporal, what the hell are YOU doing here?” McCoy barked back at the
Corporal.
“Well, sir,” Timmons began, “I’m the North watch for the tower. Jenkins is up
there sniping at Big Old Ugly Papa-San. I’m supposed to wait until the captain
sends a runner over, and then I’m supposed to tell Jenkins to vacate the tower.”
“Who’s that soldier next to you?” McCoy pointed out the Private who was dozing
off on the street wall.
“PFC Rodgers, sir.”
“Tell him to wake the fuck up. How many other watches are there, son?”
“3 others, about 2-3 men in each one just like this one.”
“Get them all out of their positions and prepare to fall back!”
Rodgers began to rise to his feet, groggily, “Pardon, sir?” He tried to catch on
to what the Master Sergeant was saying.
McCoy calmed himself down and calmly explained to his subordinate, “In the
local bars, I’ve been hearing of talk about how there was some false information
spread to American lines about Ho-Chin-Minh’s speech in Hanoi. It was all part
of a plan to lure Americans and kill them all. Tilles and Barry were right,
Corporal, this mission was all a trap and a fluke. It is a royal rat-fuck
fabricated by the VC to trap us and fuck us over, do you understand me Private?”
Timmons gulped, “Yes sir.”
“General Anderowski knew it all along that we were going to be fucked over in
this mission because it was an all out goddamn fake. And the only reason he
sent us is because the captain did some royal fucking with the Anderowski’s
daughter – and look who’s here to pay for it. You get on the radio, corporal,
and you tell everyone in the whole damn company about it, because if we don’t
get outta’ here in less than an hour, the VC will have every fuckin’ road in the
whole goddamn, fuckin’ Papa-san’s ville blocked off, and we won’t have a single
trickle-of-a-fucking-method out of this god-forsaken hellhole.” McCoy’s voice
registered hysteria, as his mouth raced to bring forth the news.
“But sir, I don’t understand how you-“
“Do you still remember those AA guns that we passed that looked like they were
covered in rust?”
“Yes sir.”
“It wasn’t rust, corporal, it was red, sandy paint. Those were newly set up,
just to spring this trap set up by the VC to cover for any air offensive against
Hanoi. The same goes for those rusted out tanks that you saw, parked out in the
jungle by rows.”
“Sir, but . . .”
“In the bar, corporal, in the bars of Vietnam you can live off everything they
hand you. Gossip, rumors, stories, beers, snacks and sex. The bartender nearly
gave away the whole plot of the VC to trap us, all the plans, including when the
VC expected us, how it would be coordinated, when the roadblocks would be put
on, hell he told me everything but where he took a shit yesterday. I’ve got
everything down on paper. Now stop asking me questions, corporal, and direct me
to the captain.”
“Yes sir. He’s down that road, take a right on the second street and head down
until you see a small alleyway with a big red sign on it. You can’t miss it.”
Timmons gestured the route with his hands.
“Thank you Corporal,” McCoy began sprinting down the torn-down street, but he
stopped as if he forgot something, and he turned back to Timmons, “Get that
sniper out of the tower, that place is going to be VC infested in a few more
moments!”
“Yes sir,” Timmons snatched up his sitting rifle, “Right on it.” He began
sprinting away from McCoy. Rodgers followed closely behind. He made his way
through the narrow alleyways behind the wrecked buildings. There had not been
another shot fired yet, this was a very good sign. As when the shooting begins,
there’s no more rest after that. As long as the VC hasn’t reached the tower
yet, Jenkins would be safe.
He jogged briskly to the east patrol, where the most men had been stationed.
Sergeant Wilder, Private Rico, PFC Johnson and PFC Tella were nestled in an
abandoned machine gun nest. Sergeant Wilder made was on watch, while PFC
Johnson and PFC Tella played a nervous game of poker. Private Rico was
snoozing.
“Sergeant!” Timmons beckoned as he jogged up to the MG nest.
Wilder turned and faced Timmons, “Yes, Corporal? Is there something with the
Captain?”
“No sir. McCoy just made it back from covert-ops. He just heard news about
Ho-Chin-Minh being some fake-ass, this whole mission being bait for dumb-ass
troopers like us, sir.”
Wilder frowned, “What are you trying to say, Corporal?”
“McCoy thinks that this whole mission is a fluke, a royal rat-fuck hotel . . .
sir. He wants the whole company to pull out right now, or the VC’s gonna’ come
in on us like a trap just set.”
“Has the Captain been notified?”
“McCoy’s on his way right now.”
“OK, let’s move out, and collect the rest of our squad.” The sergeant rose, and
PFC Tella and Johnson rose with him. They were two close friends of each
others. They formed the M-60 MG crew for the squad, and they were pretty well
suited for each other, in Military Specialty. (Of Course)
“Rico, move your ass. We’re moving out,” Wilder assumed a commanding voice,
“Tella, Johnson, take your MG and rally the rest of the squad at the West End of
the Tower. Make sure you get radioman Wolf to contact the Captain on this new
movement. Make sure you contact the whole squad quickly, and don’t let them
separate until further orders, or unless the Lieutenant comes with the rest of
the platoon. 2 men on each corner of the tower, MG set up on the East Corner.
Understand?”
Wilder got two nods.
“Good, then go! Timmons, Rico, Rodgers, you come with me. We’re getting
Jenkins.”
* * * *
McCoy spotted the big red Vietnamese ad that pointed into the alleyway. He
couldn’t have missed it, it had a large topless woman in an arousing posture.
Seems like a fitting place for the perverted captain. McCoy jogged into the
tiny alleyway. Inside the alley were large crates filled with unopened boxes of
lettuce and other green foods. There was no sign of the Captain or his men.
What the hell was this? McCoy ran past a crate when a demanding voice echoed
off the walls of the alley,
“Tornado!”
McCoy stopped and gave the second part of the passcode, “Kansas!”
One of the crates nestled in side of the alley was pushed aside, and a figure
clad in green fatigues and a helmet popped up.
“McCoy! I’ve been looking for you all day! Where the hell have you been?” It
was First Lieutenant Freeman.
“Sir!” McCoy addressed his superior, “I’ve been doing some reconnaisance.”
“On who’s orders?” The First Lieutenant walked straight up to McCoy, sticking
his face square in front of McCoy’s.
“Mine own, sir!” Answered McCoy drill sergeant style.
“I was getting my ass busted by the captain because of you! He thought you were
either dead or captured, singing our mission to the papa-san.”
McCoy shook his head and continued urgently, “Lieutenant, I need to see the
captain.”
“I don’t think so,” Freeman chuckled to himself, “He’ll be pissed as hell at
you. I think you’d better tell me first, then talk to the captain.”
McCoy could not contain himself any longer, he had waited long enough, ate
enough shit, dragged himself through hell to bring the captain this information,
and now he was within spitting distance of the captain, but he was being
detained by his own Lieutenant. This was too volatile.
“You listen to me Lieutenant,” McCoy lost his nerve, and grabbed Freeman by the
collar and dragged his face so close to his own that they were breathing on each
other, “This mission was a fake. The VC planted spies to give false information
to the General so that he would send a suicide mission like this. Right now, VC
units are being positioned to cut off ALL our escape routes and close down on
us. In about an hour, all the routes will be closed, and we’ll be trapped.”
McCoy released the Lieutenant.
Freeman, still recovering from the shock that his own subordinate had just
grabbed him, asked dazedly, “What about Ho-Chin-Minh?”
“A fake. A dead fake, he was an imposter. The troops had been staged too.
Goddamn VC fucked us over real good.” McCoy hissed.
“I think that captain should know about this.”
McCoy popped again, “THEN GET HIM OVER HERE!”
Freeman ran sheepishly into a small, dilapidated door that led into one of the
buildings of the alleyway. He motioned for McCoy to follow. McCoy did so. He
was led into a small, cramped, dark room in which the vanilla paint was peeling
from the walls, and the floor was constructed of unsturdy rotting wooden boards.
Very typical. Indeed. The room was jammed with HQ equipment, ranging from the
assembled radios to the crude makeshift map table, in which small units were
placed. Currently, the Platoon Medic, Jack Wade, was inking out a letter for
one of the members of the company. A first sergeant was operating the radio, as
Lieutenant Daniel Horrace stood by his side and supervised. The captain was
sitting on a chair, huddled over the map, making several marks with a pen.
“Captain!” McCoy bellowed.
The captain calmly finished his markings and said without turning around,
“Sergeant McCoy, would you care to explain to me why you have been AWOL for the
past 18 hours?”
McCoy couldn’t take it any longer. He had enough of this arrogant-assed captain
who couldn’t tell his left from his right, but acted as if his word was God’s
own. He was just a man that McCoy didn’t like. And it seemed to be the same
from the Captain to McCoy. This very man had endangered the whole company’s
lives and joked about it . . . and McCoy was about to break again.
The Sergeant McCoy opened his mouth wide in preparation to yell, but Lieutenant
Freeman intervened, “Captain! I think the explanation for that will arrive from
Sergeant Sean McCoy, but I am confident he has more grave news to present than
of his unexcused leave, sir!”
“Really?” The captain stood and spun around to face the Sergeant, “What might
that be?” He asked amusingly. The sergeant controlled his temper in an wise
manner, and began to carefully word out his news without tensing the
relationship between him and the captain even more.
“Captain,” He began calmly, “I have substantial reason to believe that the
VietCong has set up Ho-Chin-Minh’s speech to draw in United States Troops into a
trap.”
“Oh really?” The captain sounded skeptical, and he put up a mocking frown on
his face. He strode slowly up to McCoy, “Where did you find that out?”
“Reconnaissance, sir.” McCoy answered directly.
“Where?”
“In a bar, sir. Vietnamese Bar, sir. The bartender was a retired VC agent.”
McCoy knew that his reconnaissance was nearly unsubstantial enough to take up as
a real reason. But it only would confirm the obvious.
The captain’s face turned sour, “In a bar, McCoy?” He distinctly mouthed each
word.
“Yes sir. The VC agent was blabbering a mile a minute, sir. Sang like a
canary. He mentioned that in exactly fourty-five minutes, VC troops will have
surrounded Hanoi, and cuts off all escape routes from Hanoi. They know we’re
here, captain, and if we don’t get out, we’ll be permanently stuck in Hanoi.
And the only way out is through airmail.”
“Why do you think, McCoy,” Captain DeMaria pulled his face closer to McCoy’s and
sneered, “that we should pull out during such an important mission?”
“Sir, with all due respect, do you understand that we are going to be ambushed
by the VC?”
“Why, yes, McCoy. If we killed Ho-Chin-Minh, I can surely expect to be
ambushed.”
“No, sir! It isn’t the real Ho-Chin-Minh, sir! It’s a fluke!” McCoy
straightened up to back his face away from DeMaria’s.
The captain moved even closer, “Do you understand, Master Sergeant, that we are
here to kill Ho-Chin-Minh, and if he is in this city, then we will find him and
kill him, Master Sergeant, and the cost of killing him far outweighs any life
in the company, including you, Master Sergeant.”
McCoy jerked at the insult, but regained his face and dignity, “Sir, this
mission is a set-up, there is no Ho-Chin-Minh in the city.”
“How would you know that, Master Sergeant?” The captain demanded vehemently.
“Why would the VC risk Ho-Chin-Minh in a heavily bombed city, sir?”
Captain DeMaria sensed that he was cornered in this argument, and he noticed how
the whole room stopped of activity, and were gazing at the two figures
contending at the center of the room.
DeMaria turned around to face the rest of the room and boomed out in a loud
voice, “We are here to hunt down Ho-Chin-Minh, that is are mission!” He
declared with sweeping hand gestures, “If we fail this mission, not only do we
fail our country, but we fail all those G.I.s out there who will have to die,
because we are too yellow to engage the enemy full on. I assure you that we
have a well-planned escape route, 3rd Platoon has it well covered, and as we
speak they are moving the hijacked tanks near the Central Well. They are doing
their duty and we trust them to do it well so we can escape. But our nation is
trusting us to do our duty, and if we do not do it, we fail the whole
chain-of-command above us.”
McCoy was twitching with anger now. His lip was having tiny spasms from holding
in all the words, and he just couldn’t bear the pain any longer. He was going
to blow.
“Sir! I must protest! I know what happened with you and Anderwoski’s daughter.
You had a little ‘affair’ with her, didn’t you?” McCoy was obviously aiming to
piss DeMaria off as much as he could. He knew that he was when he saw DeMaria
turn back to him with raging eyes, and hands flexing.
Still, McCoy continued, “You got away from being court-martialed because you
made a shady deal with Anderwoski to be sent on this mission. So here you are,
sent with your whole company to accomplish a mission that doesn’t even exist.
You were sent to die here, captain, and you have to be truly, and awfully dense
if you don’t get it. This is a fluke captain, THIS IS A FUCKING FLUKE!” McCoy
bellowed. By this moment, the room had been intensely worked up. The
bystanders looked on with caution, guessing what would happen next.
Captain DeMaria hid his anger as well as he could, and calmly asked, “Where did
you find out that this mission was a fluke?”
“Reconnaisance, sir.” McCoy answered with a insolent tone.
“Where, Master Sergeant McCoy?”
McCoy held his breath, and gave the honest answer, “In a bar, sir.”
“In a bar, McCoy? How credible is that?” DeMaria’s voice went booming again.
He had lost his temper also.
“Very credible, sir. The bartender was a VC agent!”
DeMaria yelled out even louder, “And just what makes you think that Captain
Anderwoski would send me to my death.”
McCoy frowned, and tried to put the terms in the most vulgar way possible,
“Because you royally fucked his daughter doggy style without her consent!”
DeMaria had couldn’t tolerate any more of McCoy’s insolence, and he reached in
to his holster and pulled out his sidearm. DeMaria leveled it at the Sergeant’s
face.
McCoy didn’t even blink.
Captain DeMaria was half in tears, and in fury. His eyes obviously showed
desperate confusion in his mind. Master Sergeant McCoy stared at the quivering
gun barrel that was up to his nose.
DeMaria yelled hysterically, “You have no fucking idea, what shit I put up to
get here. I am serving my country as a captain. I ate crap just to have these
two silver bars put on my helmet. I’ve always wanted to command men, make them
the best men ever yet, to serve their country. You have no idea what I’ve
wanted to accomplish with this company – and this is the perfect opportunity for
me to command a group of men that can change history forever. And you have no
fucking idea, how long Anderwoski and I have been friends, so don’t you dare
fucking say a goddamn thing about how he is fucking trying to kill me!”
McCoy, sensing that he was in very deep shit, (considering the loaded pistol
with a barrel at his face) began to talk very soothingly and softly, “Captain .
. . Anderwoski may have been a friend, but that doesn’t stop him from killing
you. Look at it rationally, this mission is not possible, sir. Look at it,
it’s a dead setup for-”
“SHUTUP!” DeMaria screamed as he jabbed the gun towards McCoy, “SHUTUP!”
McCoy’s raised both his hands to indicate his surrender, “Sir, I am not a
threat to you. Sir, stay calm –“
“So what the HELL do you want me to do, McCoy? Huh? What the HELL do you want
me to do?” DeMaria demanded. He flicked off the safety on the gun with a deft
movement of his thumb.
McCoy remained silent for a moment, as he thought through his answers. He
looked straight into the Captain’s desperate eyes and searched out for the
answer that would defuse this situation. Then, he came up with a reasonably
safe response,
“I want us to retreat, sir.”
“McCoy, you want us to retreat?” The captain reiterated McCoy’s answer to
confirm it.
“Yes sir.”
An evil grin crept upon the captain’s face as he barked an order to First
Lieutenant Horrace, “First Lieutenant, I am ordering you to arrest this man for
cowardice, and put him into my custody.”
All the eyes in the room flicked to Horrace, who was dumbfounded by the
responsibility. A confused look came upon his face as he pondered about what to
do.
McCoy looked straight into the Lieutenant’s face and ordered, “Don’t do it,
Lieutenant. You know that I am right for what I am doing. Do not arrest me.”
The order only bewildered the Lieutenant even more.
McCoy said in a more softer, and begging tone, “Don’t do it Lieutenant. Don’t
do it.”
But DeMaria broke the soft voice by yelling even louder, “Goddamn it,
Lieutenant. That’s a goddamned order, you will fucking comply and arrest Master
Sergeant Sean McCoy right now!”
Horrace didn’t move a muscle, except for his arm which indecisively groped for
his sidearm.
“What are you doing Lieutenant? You know that I am preserving your life and
the rest of the company’s from unnecessary and unrealistic expectations. This
mission is a fluke lieutenant, don’t arrest me!” McCoy said firmly. His heart
was racing because DeMaria’s barrel had been in his face for a moment too long.
McCoy’s hand felt for his own pistol.
DeMaria was focused on Horrace, “That’s right Lieutenant, move in and arrest
this man for cowardice!”
Horrace drew his sidearm and began to slowly advance on the Sergeant.
McCoy saw this coming. He was in deep shit. “Lieutenant! Don’t you see? You
are going to die if you don’t listen to me. You’ll be dead before you can get
out of this hell-hole! This mission’s a fluke, I tell you! I’m telling ya! I
can prove it, goddamn it!”
Without warning, Horrace stopped, and then reholstered his weapon.
DeMaria’s face tensed up, “What the hell are you doing, Lieutenant?” He
hissed.
“Sir,” The Lieutenant said in a submissive tone, “I can’t do it sir. I just
can’t, it’s just not right, sir.”
“Then I’ll do it myself.” The captain sneered as he turned back to face McCoy
with his gun, “I’ll do it myself. I shoot you right here, right now and blow
your puny little insolent ass all over this wall.”
“Captain!” McCoy began to negotiate desperately, “Think about it. Anderwoski
is not your friend anymore, he is trying to kill you! He has always hated you,
can’t you see it? You must get over it!”
“NO! NO! NO! I’ll shoot you! I’ll shoot you right here, asshole!”
McCoy sensed that the captain was truly serious about it this time. McCoy was
in serious horse-shit this time, “Captain DeMaria, you goddamn well know that
it’s a fluke, and in order to save the lives of your men that you have worked to
train, and that you have worked so hard to command, you must get over it,
Captain. To lose it all now because you can’t admit a simple fact is a true
pity, sir.”
“I’LL SHOOT YOU!” The captain declared in a hysterical voice.
“Captain, with all due respect, fuck you. You goddamn well know that this
mission is going to kill every single one of your men, and if you don’t retreat
now, they’ll all be sure to die, here. You can go ahead and shoot me if you
fucking want, but just know that your men trust you and your decision as their
captain, and if you fail them – you’ve truly failed as their captain.”
DeMaria’s face was red with anger, and agony. Sweat was trickling off his
forehead from the conflicts within his head. And his hands on the gun were
trembling even more violently.
McCoy reached forward with his hands and pushed DeMaria’s gun down gently and
confiscated it from DeMaria’s grasp. The captain was in sobbing state now,
and he released the gun cooperatively and sat down on the wooden chair, crying.
The whole room was silent except for the weeping of DeMaria. All of his men
looked on pitifully as the captain heaved deep sobs. But after a few moments,
out of the sobbing came the voice of a newer, refreshed man with new resolve and
vigor.
DeMaria choked out through his sobs, “First Sergeant Roland, get runners and
contact all platoons to meet at the Central Well for a general retreat.”
McCoy let a smile creep across his face.
* * * *
CUT – Wilder, Timmons, Rodgers and Rico make it to the bell tower. Timmons sees
a peverted picture hanging on the wall, and drops behind to admire it as the
rest of the group goes to the top of the tower. They open the door to the tower
and find Jenkins still sweeping the Courtyard with his rifle. They tell him
that there is to be an retreat, and then they start to leave.
“Come on, Jenkins, get your ass in gear and move it!” Wilder ordered.
Jenkins fumbled with his ammo clips and cumbersome rifle, “I’m on it, sir!” He
answered, annoyed.
“Where the hell is Timmons?” Sergeant Wilder turned around to check if all his
men had made it to the tower. He only saw two of his three men, “Where the hell
is Timmons?”
Rodgers and Rico looked dumbly at each other.
“We’ll find him later, dead or alive. We want to move before the-” Wilder’s
voice was stopped by sporadic machine-gun fire. All around the cramped bell
tower, the wooden walls and encasements began to disintegrate. The men all
dropped to the floor. Rodgers was caught straight in the gut with a golden
streak, and his abdomen exploded into a bloom of red. He fell to the ground,
crying aloud.
“MG fire, sir! Sounds like a fifty-caliber!” Rico yelled above the gunfire and
exploding wood.
“Goddamn it Jenkins,” Wilder wiped a smear of Rodger’s blood, “If you moved
faster, Jenkins, we would be out of here.”
There was a pause of voices as more gunfire cut into the tower, exploding more
bits of debris on to the floor. Rico rolled over to Rodgers and tried to tie up
the wound. There were enough bullet holes now that Wilder stuck his eye to one
of the openings and peeked down at the road where the gunfire originated.
“Jesus Christ!” He exclaimed, “It is a goddamn fifty! They set up a machine
gun nest down there!"
Jenkins yelled out, “How many people, sir?”
“Uhh,” Wilder was blinded by the sudden flashes and flying debris, “5 men, two
machine gunners, 3 infantrymen!” Wilder rolled back just in time before a
streak of bullet holes struck where his head had been peeking.
Rico exclaimed, “Rodgers is dead, sir!” Wilder looked at the dead body lying
there with a pool of blood rolling towards one of Jenkin’s pants legs.
“Damn.”
“I think I can take them out, sir!” Jenkins suggested as he loaded up 5 shells
into his rifle.
Rico stared at Jenkins as if he were crazy, “Not in this gunfire!”
Wilder covered his face as the pat-pat-pat continued to wear away the wood,
“Jenkins, I can offer you some cover!”
“With what?”
“With this,” Sergeant Wilder unhooked a grenade from his belt and then pulled
the pin. He depressed the lever. “When the grenade goes, I want you to set up
on that encasement and snipe those suckers down!”
“Yes sir!” Jenkins approved. Wilder rolled to the edge closest to the MG nest
and then waited for a pause in gunfire. The gunfire stopped. Wilder rocketed
up and lobbed the grenade in the direction of the MG.
There were several shouts of dismay from the VC and some gunfire randomly flew
up at the tower. A few of them caught Wilder.
“Sergeant!” Rico yelled in horror as a bullet exited the Sergeant’s back. He
fell down to he floor, regurgitating blood. Then there was a loud explosion
from the MG nest.
“GO! GO!” Wilder managed to croak through his bloodied mouth.
Jenkins, half done in horror, swung his rifle up and over the encasement and
then peered intensely into his scope. His heart racing, he scanned for the MG
nest through the smoke. He could barely make out a coughing man through the
foggy acrid, and then placed his cross hairs on him. He pulled the trigger and
felt the recoil bump back into his shoulder.
The man spat a fountain of blood, and fell.
Another man squealed as his comrade fell before him. That was a big mistake.
Jenkins made himself another target, and let fly with a .50 caliber shell. It
struck the second man in the through, nearly blowing off his head. Two down,
Three to go.
He saw another VC injured by the explosion, crawling through the clearing smoke
with an arm missing. He was crying for help. Jenkins fired again. The shell
entered the man’s back, ending his misery. But then, Jenkins saw the last two
men, the MG crew. They were struggling back to man the MG! The first man had
already begun to train his sights on Jenkins. He could see through his
crosshairs, the very barrel of the machine gun. SHIT! Jenkins quickly moved
the sight up a little and placed it on the VC man’s chest. He fired.
The recoil of the gun sent the bullet twirling off to the Assistant gunner,
blasting him back, throwing the aim of the machine gunner temporarily. Jenkins
would have to kill the gunner. Now.
Placing the crosshairs once again on the last VC man, he pulled the trigger.
The bullet again, harmlessly ricocheted slightly to the right. DAMN IT! The
gunner was up to aim again and the barrel was pointed at Jenkins. He didn’t
like that. Jenkins guessed a compensation for the aim, and put the crosshairs
slightly above and to the left of the VC man.
At the moment, there was a flash from the muzzle. The MG opened fire. But at
the moment also, Jenkins expended his last bullet. The bullet flew through the
air, and then found its mark in the man’s head, blowing off the left side of the
face. He collapsed. The MG bullets all missed the tower, and harmlessly flew
off into the air. Son of a bitch. That was close.
The victorious sniper turned around to find himself faced with a shot-up
Sergeant Wilder, and very worried Rico. The Private was busily nursing the
Sergeant’s wounds.
“Medic!” He screamed. Jenkins crawled over Rodger’s body to the dying
sergeant. He looked over the wound, centered at his stomach. The blood was
thickly mixed with bile, coloring it crimson red. Rico had already placed a
makeshift rag that was his scarf on the sergeant’s abdomen.
“Jesus Christ, where am I hit?” Wilder gurgled as he began to drift away from
conscienceless. He coughed out some of his own saliva.
“I think it’s uh,” Rico trailed off for a moment in a dilemma whether to tell
the truth or not, “I think it’s your liver, sir.”
Wilder jolted awake, “My . . .” His head angled to see his wound. Rico laid a
gentle hand on the sergeant’s forehead and nudged it back down.
“Relax, sergeant. You’ll be fine.”
“Bullshit!” Wilder spat, as he coughed some more, “I’ll be dead in f-five
minutes!”
Jenkins looked at Rico with concerned eyes, “Is that true?” He whispered.
Rico gingerly nodded. There was another silence, except for the distant jungle
alive and buzzing with activity. Several Vietnamese voices could be heard a few
buildings away.
“We have to get him outta’ here.” Private Jenkins suggested.
Rico, still applying pressure to the wound, looked over at the wooden door, “Go
ahead and open it!”
The sniper slung his weapon behind his back and arose from the ground. He
attempted to open the door. It wouldn’t budge. The door was wedged shut on the
other side. There was something blocking the door from opening!
“Son of a fucking bitch. This door won’t move!” Jenkins tried a firmer grasp
and shook the door violently, trying to unwedge it. It didn’t work.
“Fuck. How the hell are we going to get out of here?”
A muffled voice arose from the other side of the door, “Hey, anybody in there?”
It was Timmons.
“Timmons! You fuck-lucky bastard! Can you open the door?” Jenkins called
through the wooden door.
“Yeah! I can do that!” Timmons anxiously answered. Then, there was a loud
shot from behind the door, and then something heavy fell. It noisly clunked to
the ground.
Jenkins flung himself out of the way of the door. He pulled out his .45 pistol
and armed it. Rico got low to the ground, sheltering the sergeant. They waited
for the door to open.
T
he knob turned slowly, and the door began to part from the wall. Then, the
figure stepped in.
Jenkins, double handed grip on his .45, leveled the gun at the figure’s head.
“Why you guys so quiet all of a sudden?”
The figure turned to see Jenkin’s gun
leveled at his face, “Holy shit! What the hell?”
Seeing the coast was clear, Jenkins lowered the gun, letting out the trademark
breath of relief, “Son of a fucking bitch, Timmons, you are one son of a FUCKING
bitch.” He reholstered his weapon.
Rico looked relieved, “I thought he was shot or something, but God, you had us
pissing in our pants.”
“I just shot the wooden shaft that was jamming the door, folks! That’s it!”
Timmons noted the blood rolling all around the ground. He traced one trail to
Rodgers, who was obviously dead from his non-rising chest. He traced the other
blood trail to Sergeant Wilder, “Sarge!”
“Oh for Chrissakes Timmons. How long did it take your dense fucking head to
figure out I’m hit?” Wilder gargled out painfully. He laid back down against
the wooden floor, and coughed coldly.
Rico looked up, “We got to get out of here, now.” He then leaned closer to
Timmons and whispered, “Wilder doesn’t have much of a chance now.”
Timmons glanced quickly at his dying sergeant, “We got to get him out of here,
find a medic!”
“Not a chance, he’s hit in the goddamn liver, he’s got about 5 minutes left
to-“
“Rico, Timmons . . .?” Wilder weakly whispered out to his subordinates, “Pick
me up, p-pick me up.”
The two privates crawled over to their sergeant and helped him sit up.
“Now, alla’ you listen. You’ll leave this tower now, and make sure that cap’n
pulls out of this city, you understand. I’ll cover your exit from the tower . .
.”
Timmons, seeing all too many western movies, protested, “But sergeant, what
about you?”
“Fuck whatever the hell is to do with me, and do whatever the hell I tell you.
Now hand me that rifle.” Wilder pointed to his M-16 laying on the wooden floor
where he last dropped it. Jenkins obediently picked it up and handed it to
Wilder.
With a shaky grip, Wilder gripped the rifle and tiredly lifted himself up on to
the tower fencing. “Now go. Go.” The sergeant whispered.
The rest of the privates looked among themselves, unsure of what to do.
“Go now and leave me! Do I have to spell it out for you, privates? Move you
dumb, slow, lard-asses out of this tower and to the captain’s pen, NOW!” The
dying Wilder yelled so violently that he coughed out a batch of phlegm and
blood. The privates, quickly grabbed their gear and filed out of the tower.
Rico offered the sergeant a last look, “Sergeant Wilder, it’s been an honor
serving under you, sir.”
“Fuck you, Rico.”
Rico ran down the stairs to catch up with his peers.
Timmons entered the open street again, rifle at the ready. He scanned the
buildings carefully, watching for VC snipers or soldiers that have just been
deployed. God I can’t believe this was a fucking set up. Anderwoski sent us to
die! Maybe he was going to die. The was the deepest shit he would be in his
life. Fuck that Anderwoski bastard, stuff a fucking popsicle stick up his ass
sideways. No way. He wasn’t going to die here. Timmons vowed to himself that
he would make it back to the LZ, buy a popsicle stick, eat it, then go into
Anderwoski’s office and give him some ass-overhaul. Timmons was followed with
Rico and Jenkins whom housed the same thoughts.
They briskly turned the corner of the street. They could see the MG nest that
Jenkins had just took out. The barrel of the MG was still smoking, dead VC
bodies hung all over the sandbags. The tower that they had just descended was
visible, and Wilder’s rifle barrel could be seen glinting in the sun. Poor
bastard. The three Privates looked up solemnly at their sergeant, waiting to
meet death cradling a rifle.
Out of the jungle buzz, Wilder’s voice cried out, “Die slow you VC fucks!”
Wilder’s rifle burst out a few shots at the MG nest. Timmons dove behind an
abandoned streetcart. What the hell? Jenkins was apalled. Didn’t he take
out all the guys in the MG nest?
Two VC soldiers popped out from behind the sandbags. I guess not.
One of the VC soldiers was carrying a slug rifle. A big, bad-ass gun with ten
big shots, biting chunks out of walls. The soldier, apparently not afraid of
Wilder’s shots, took aim at the tower, and fired several shells at the tower.
The wooden tower splattered with wood, and a puff of red blood spurted from
behind the tower fencing.
The tower silenced.
