DRayVan
07-31-2018, 10:39 AM
Along the trail, a stream followed the descending contours of the narrow terrain, snaked around exposed tree roots, cascaded over rocks, and gurgled into a tranquil pool. In another time, mused Greg, a U.S. Navy corpsman during the Vietnam War, the jungle would have been a mysterious yet beautiful place to visit with its singing birds, tropical plants, and strangling vines--like a Tarzan-movie set. But at any moment, the U.S. Marines expected to encounter their adversary, hidden and waiting for them, and the vegetation could be as much their enemy as the Viet Cong were. In places, it was so dense it could hide an army a few yards off the path and often did, so weapons were poised for action.
After drizzling for an hour, the rain finally stopped. Sunlight sliced through the dense canopy. The climbing temperature and humidity were merciless, and Greg’s helmet trapped them like a greenhouse. Sweat oozed from every pore but could not evaporate. His wet uniform clung like a second skin. He stank and needed a shower.
The company of soldiers rounded a bend in the trail, and the canopy opened, exposing massive rock formations rising from the valley’s floor, narrowing to a gorge. Vines clung to crevices wherever roots could find a foothold. It was a perfect place for an ambush.
The line halted, and Greg knelt as quietly as he could. Sweat dripped off his forehead. The incessant buzzing of flying insects--darting in and out, escaping his swatting hand, and dining on his exposed skin--was maddening. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the movement of a creature slithering under fallen leaves. The ground hemorrhaged soft mud, consuming his boots, and the smell of decomposing vegetation filled the sweltering air.
Near the front, the point Marines moved through the undergrowth, positioning on both sides of the stream, weapons at the ready. Around him, the click of ammo pulled into rifle chambers stiffened his neck hairs.
They waited. The line’s collective sixth sense knew something was about to happen. The message, “There’s trouble ahead,” filtered down the line.
“Keep it quiet,” whispered the Sergeant in a calming voice.
Greg froze, trying not to make a sound. Tension filled the atmosphere. He saw it in their faces: eyes darting here and there, lips twitching, and mouths praying.
“Damn this, let’s get it on,” muttered a Marine near him, spitting on the ground.
“Shut up. Keep a lid on it.” This time, the Sergeant’s voice was edgy but firm.
The jungle no longer stirred emotions of mystery and beauty: it aroused feelings of danger and peril. For now, all was quiet, but Greg sensed the quiet would not last long; it never did.
Confusing and indistinguishable shouts came from the head of the line.
In an instant, the tropical forest erupted in a barrage of incoming rifle-fire echoing in the ravine. Several yards ahead of him, the point Marines returned a salvo toward the enemy’s locations. Like a well-rehearsed drill team, men rushed to provide cover and support for the forward positions. Overlapping, automatic-rifle volleys from the left, right, and point joined the attack. In the distance, the enemy’s rifle-fire resonated in return.
Back and forth, the battle raged. A mortar exploded, sending shock waves reverberating up the valley.
“Incoming! Take cover!” The line dove, embracing the ground, melting into the smallest of depressions. Explosions thundered through the gorge. Greg felt the earth tremble beneath him.
The stereophonic sound of semi-automatic rifle-fire was unnerving yet reassuring. Tracer bullets left lethal trails in the dense foliage. Rocket launchers sent waves of explosives toward suspected enemy locations. Blinding light, booming explosions, and mangled shrubbery marked their targeted areas.
As quickly as it began, the symphony of battle ended without applause.
The Corporal moved up and down the line.
“Is everybody okay?”
“Get on your feet.”
“Keep it quiet.”
“Get ready to move out!”
But the line did not move.
A call rang out. “Corpsman, send a corpsman up!” Greg grabbed his first-aid bag and hurried to the front of the line.
“Over here, doc, a corpsman’s been wounded.”
In the thick undergrowth, a kid not much older than Greg, lay bleeding from a head wound. Another corpsman joined him by his side.
“Get back,” Greg yelled. “Give us room.”
“Okay Marines, give the docs some room,” ordered the Sergeant.
“You know him?” asked the other corpsman.
“No,” said Greg. “He’s one of the new guys.”
Greg removed the bloody helmet to bandage his head. Holding a bandage in his hand, he pressed it on the wound, expecting to meet resistance from the skull but met none. The wounded corpsman groaned but did not move.
“Do you feel what I feel?”
The other corpsman put his hand on the bandage. “Yeah, the back of his head is gone. His brains are oozing out,” he whispered. “Not much we can do for him.”
They bandaged him the best they could but knew it was hopeless.
“You think it was friendly fire?” asked Greg.
“Probably. No other way he’d get shot from behind.”
“You gonna say anything?”
“No, can’t tell who shot him, anyway.”
“Me neither. He’ll die soon. Let’s just wait him out.”
With hands and uniforms covered in his blood, they knelt beside the fallen corpsman until he died.
#
Many corpsmen went on missions and never returned. One by one, the original fifty-three assigned to Greg’s combat battalion dwindled to thirteen--the Lucky 13: some died, some were wounded, some got sick, and a few just couldn’t take all the blood and dying any more. At the end of his tour of duty, he came home physically sound yet the memories of the corpsmen who did not come home occasionally haunt him. As a rule, he did not make friends: the pain of losing one was too much to bear. Looking back, Greg regrets having that rule.
After drizzling for an hour, the rain finally stopped. Sunlight sliced through the dense canopy. The climbing temperature and humidity were merciless, and Greg’s helmet trapped them like a greenhouse. Sweat oozed from every pore but could not evaporate. His wet uniform clung like a second skin. He stank and needed a shower.
The company of soldiers rounded a bend in the trail, and the canopy opened, exposing massive rock formations rising from the valley’s floor, narrowing to a gorge. Vines clung to crevices wherever roots could find a foothold. It was a perfect place for an ambush.
The line halted, and Greg knelt as quietly as he could. Sweat dripped off his forehead. The incessant buzzing of flying insects--darting in and out, escaping his swatting hand, and dining on his exposed skin--was maddening. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the movement of a creature slithering under fallen leaves. The ground hemorrhaged soft mud, consuming his boots, and the smell of decomposing vegetation filled the sweltering air.
Near the front, the point Marines moved through the undergrowth, positioning on both sides of the stream, weapons at the ready. Around him, the click of ammo pulled into rifle chambers stiffened his neck hairs.
They waited. The line’s collective sixth sense knew something was about to happen. The message, “There’s trouble ahead,” filtered down the line.
“Keep it quiet,” whispered the Sergeant in a calming voice.
Greg froze, trying not to make a sound. Tension filled the atmosphere. He saw it in their faces: eyes darting here and there, lips twitching, and mouths praying.
“Damn this, let’s get it on,” muttered a Marine near him, spitting on the ground.
“Shut up. Keep a lid on it.” This time, the Sergeant’s voice was edgy but firm.
The jungle no longer stirred emotions of mystery and beauty: it aroused feelings of danger and peril. For now, all was quiet, but Greg sensed the quiet would not last long; it never did.
Confusing and indistinguishable shouts came from the head of the line.
In an instant, the tropical forest erupted in a barrage of incoming rifle-fire echoing in the ravine. Several yards ahead of him, the point Marines returned a salvo toward the enemy’s locations. Like a well-rehearsed drill team, men rushed to provide cover and support for the forward positions. Overlapping, automatic-rifle volleys from the left, right, and point joined the attack. In the distance, the enemy’s rifle-fire resonated in return.
Back and forth, the battle raged. A mortar exploded, sending shock waves reverberating up the valley.
“Incoming! Take cover!” The line dove, embracing the ground, melting into the smallest of depressions. Explosions thundered through the gorge. Greg felt the earth tremble beneath him.
The stereophonic sound of semi-automatic rifle-fire was unnerving yet reassuring. Tracer bullets left lethal trails in the dense foliage. Rocket launchers sent waves of explosives toward suspected enemy locations. Blinding light, booming explosions, and mangled shrubbery marked their targeted areas.
As quickly as it began, the symphony of battle ended without applause.
The Corporal moved up and down the line.
“Is everybody okay?”
“Get on your feet.”
“Keep it quiet.”
“Get ready to move out!”
But the line did not move.
A call rang out. “Corpsman, send a corpsman up!” Greg grabbed his first-aid bag and hurried to the front of the line.
“Over here, doc, a corpsman’s been wounded.”
In the thick undergrowth, a kid not much older than Greg, lay bleeding from a head wound. Another corpsman joined him by his side.
“Get back,” Greg yelled. “Give us room.”
“Okay Marines, give the docs some room,” ordered the Sergeant.
“You know him?” asked the other corpsman.
“No,” said Greg. “He’s one of the new guys.”
Greg removed the bloody helmet to bandage his head. Holding a bandage in his hand, he pressed it on the wound, expecting to meet resistance from the skull but met none. The wounded corpsman groaned but did not move.
“Do you feel what I feel?”
The other corpsman put his hand on the bandage. “Yeah, the back of his head is gone. His brains are oozing out,” he whispered. “Not much we can do for him.”
They bandaged him the best they could but knew it was hopeless.
“You think it was friendly fire?” asked Greg.
“Probably. No other way he’d get shot from behind.”
“You gonna say anything?”
“No, can’t tell who shot him, anyway.”
“Me neither. He’ll die soon. Let’s just wait him out.”
With hands and uniforms covered in his blood, they knelt beside the fallen corpsman until he died.
#
Many corpsmen went on missions and never returned. One by one, the original fifty-three assigned to Greg’s combat battalion dwindled to thirteen--the Lucky 13: some died, some were wounded, some got sick, and a few just couldn’t take all the blood and dying any more. At the end of his tour of duty, he came home physically sound yet the memories of the corpsmen who did not come home occasionally haunt him. As a rule, he did not make friends: the pain of losing one was too much to bear. Looking back, Greg regrets having that rule.