Sergeant Dickinson (16 page)

“I wonder where the Southern Cross is.”

“I think you have to be below the equator to see it,” Bates said.

“Oh.”

“I think so.”

“When I was with the Cav I knew this guy, we'd be out at night smoking and looking at the stars, and he'd say, ‘Wouldn't it be great if a flying saucer came down right now and just picked us up and carried us away?' He was always saying that.”

“You were with the Cav?”

“On my first tour.”

A couple of F4s came in and dropped napalm a few hundred meters outside the perimeter. It burst upward in a rolling sheet, orange and black, giving green to the jungle which we were already accustomed to seeing as gray or black, and spread right and left as though it were some concoction boiling over a great witch's cauldron, acid and corrosive, not meant for mortals to ingest. But in the clarity of the night it was only a light show, nothing more; we were too far away to feel the heat.

“God, that's pretty,” Bates said.

“First close air support I've seen in two weeks. They'll be gone when the ceiling closes up again.”

The F4s came around and strafed where they had dropped
the napalm.

“I wonder what's there.”

A guy holding a small radio in his hand called over to us: “FAC wants to know if we've got anybody in our wire!”

“Fuck, I don't know,” Pappy said. “They're fools if they try it now.”

The guy with the radio called: “FAC says the pilots are going to claim a hundred and twenty killed on the wire!”

“I don't give a shit! They can claim their grandmothers if they want to!”

We waited. It was a waiting. We played a waiting game. They played another game, we knew its rules: To defeat Death you have to become Him. But we played a waiting game.

Pierson said, “No B fifty-twos tonight.”

“Why the hell not?” demanded Pappy. Then he added, “Sir.”

“They won't bomb close enough to do us any good. They're afraid they might kill Americans.”

“So here we are.”

“Here we are.”

“We need those bombs about two hundred and fifty meters out.”

“I think I'm having a crisis of conscience,” Ortiz said.

“We'll stay at fifty percent alert tonight,” said Pierson.

In the morning the patrols went out. Throughout the day you heard the shooting from firefights all around the camp. In the evening two of the patrols returned.

“They were the ones who called for mortar fire,” I told
Pierson. I was referring to the third patrol, which hadn't come in.

“Maybe they called it in on their own position. That happens. Who were the Americans with them?”

“Bates and one of Wilson's people.”

“Bates wouldn't have called it in on himself. Were you able to tell who was on the radio?”

“No sir. He was using the whisper mike.”

“Damn. Damn.”

The helicopter with Wilson on it took off in the clear afternoon. Half a klick away it arced up and to the right and exploded. The black smoke separated from the scattering mass and rose upward. The fire followed the bits of the helicopter to the ground.

“Never leave a battle while you can still fight,” Pappy said. “I never liked him anyway.”

“You're sure they were tracked vehicles, they couldn't be anything else?”

“Sir, if I'd had a goddamn camera with me I would have taken some goddamn pictures, but I didn't have a camera,” Geyer said.

“All right, all right. Could they be 'dozers?”

“Sir, I can't swear that they aren't 'dozers. All I saw were the ground impressions. But ask yourself, what would they be doing with bulldozers?”

“All right. I agree. They're tanks. Dickinson, get Division on the horn. I want to talk with their G-two. You know what they're going to say, Geyer? They're going to say, ‘Get pictures.'”

“No way we'd ever make it out there and back. We got tagged this time. We go out there again and that'll be all she wrote.”

“Got'em, sir.”

Pierson took the mike. “I thought you guys might like to know, we've spotted tank tracks about five hundred meters west of our location. Over.”

“Say again. Over,” said the voice from Division.

Pierson winked at Geyer and me. “You heard me correctly. Over.”

“Wait one.

“We have no information concerning friendly armor in your area. Over.”

“We do not believe this is friendly armor.”

“Wait one.

“We have no information concerning enemy armor in your area.”

“Yes, but we have information.”

“There is no armor in your area. I say again, there is no armor in your area. You are not at Lang Vei, Captain. Do not let your imagination override your judgment. Out.”

“At least they didn't tell us to get pictures,” Geyer said. “This is like A Shau. Worse. At least at A Shau when we were being overrun, they didn't tell us we weren't. They just didn't do anything to help us.”

“The Marines who were supposed to be supporting Lang Vei didn't believe the NVA had armor either.”

“That's enough!” Pierson shouted. “You're talking yourselves into a defeatist attitude. You cannot afford that. I do not want to hear any more talk about Lang Vei or A Shau or Plei Me. Geyer, I want you to get back out there with your troops. Dickinson, I want you at the radio. Take over from Wilson's man—he says he hasn't slept in three days.”

“I couldn't sleep now anyway, sir. I'm wired into the radio,” Wilson's man said.

“I advise you to sleep, Evans. You may not get another chance for a while. Why are you still here, Geyer! Get out there with your troops!”

I stepped outside. To the west the Air Force was bombing. You could feel the ground tremors in your feet. The horizon brightened and dimmed, pulsing like the aurora borealis when you're not close enough to see the colors but can still see the lights like a white haze expanding and contracting at the edge of the world.

I slipped a bullet into my breast pocket.

In the morning it was another day.

The fog came in before evening and stayed, hugging the ground as though the earth were its lawful possession. The column of Laotians did not show up.

When the NVA finally came it was a relief. It was as though we had spent our lives waiting for them and now, at last, they were here. They came in a rush, there were so many that you could not see how you could keep from hitting them, even without aiming. There were the explosions as the sappers cleared assault paths through the wire, and then they were in the trenches with the Yards.

“Tanks in the wire!” somebody yelled. You could see them coming out of the dust and fog on the road—three, four, probably a fifth—infantry moving up behind them.

“Get on the horn!” I scream at Evans.

“I am on the horn! Dagger, Dagger, this is Copper Jacket! We are under heavy ground attack from armor and infantry! I say again: We have tanks in the wire!”

“This is Dagger. Say again. Over.”

“We have tanks in the wire! Stand by for fire mission!”

“Negative, negative, Copper jacket. There is no armor in your area. Over.”

“You motherfuckers! We're being overrun! We're Americans! Help us!”

There is the blast of a tank cannon, and the bunker door crashes in.

“They've knocked down our antennas!” Evans shrieks.

“Do you still have power?”

“I've got power! It's the antenna!”

I rush outside. Everything that is combustible is already burning, everything is red and black, it is a Halloween nightmare, a night on Bald Mountain. A pair of legs in camouflage
trousers, the feet in jungle boots as large as mine, is spread on the ground in front of me, the torso is somewhere else. I hope it is not somebody I know, and I laugh because of course it is somebody I know.

Pappy, his terror-polished face reflecting the flicker of fire and shadow, comes running up. “Dickinson! Get on the radio! Get fire support!”

“The antennas are down! I can't find them!”

“The leads go into the corner of the commo bunker! Look there!”

“It's been blown away!”

“Cut new ones!”

The tank guns open up again and we drop into a crouch. “Do it!” Pappy yells. There are smoke and dust everywhere, I am almost past the commo bunker before I realize where I am. Inside, Evans is lying on his side. The radios are useless, somebody has done as complete a job on them as on Evans.

Outside again, running toward where I last saw Pappy, nothing looks familiar. I stumble into a mortar pit. Someone is leaning over me, I can feel him even before I roll over. “Hold it! He's an American!” The man lowers his rifle.

“Dickinson! Did you get hold of Division?” It's Pappy.

“Radios are shot up. Evans is dead.”

Five of us are hunched up in the mortar pit. Nobody speaks.

“Where's Pierson?” I ask.

“His legs are back there.” The answerer giggles. Somebody else giggles too.

“Where's Geyer?”

“I'm here.”

“Where's Lieutenant Hendricks?” Pappy asks.

“Dead.”

“You're sure?”

“Fuck yes, I'm sure.”

“What about that new medic?”

“Haven't seen him.”

“Anybody seen Ortiz?” Geyer asks.

Nobody answers.

“There goes the perimeter.”

From the west and south tanks are coming in behind the sappers. You can see the faces of the tank commanders in the cupolas. The Yards break at last, they flood back toward the center of the camp. One is dragging himself by his hands. Another tumbles forward, lands on his face, his feet cartwheeling over his head; he must have been head-shot. Now the North Vietnamese infantry are coming through. They are wearing green uniforms. At Plei Me they wore khaki.

“
Let's go,” Pappy says.

Now we are out of the mortar pit and racing for the nearest tank. It is twenty-five meters away, it seems to take forever to get to it. Two of Wilson's people, I never learned their names, are the first there. They are on the tank's deck, trying to force open its hatch, as Pappy, Geyer, and I go for another one. It is already dead, one of its treads knocked off, a decapitated crew member lying beside it, the Yards do good work, ha ha. Ahead of us are the green uniforms, there are so many of them, Pappy stops suddenly and as I pass him he is fixing his bayonet, and Geyer screams at him, “Don't stop!” and now Geyer and Pappy are
behind me, and one of the small green uniforms appears in front of me and I fire a short burst, it is so pure and sweet and clear, like sudden knowledge, like certainty, and the small green man flies backward, it is as though he were flying, his arms lift, his back arches, his feet rise off the ground, it's Superman! ha, ha. Now almost to the perimeter, there are Americans, and I fire off the rest of the magazine, ha ha, they fall, they are so surprised, and more of them, where have they come from? I rip off another magazine, ha ha ha, they can't believe it, I fire right into them, ha ha ha ha, I am falling, ha ha, I am hit again, I can see the bones of my hand and then I cannot see the bones for the blood, and there is Roy, laughing, his features all laughing with the joy of it all, Roy is laughing, it is so funny, everything is,
and I feel such love….

Arvin (Ar' vin;
slang
): Pronunciation of the acronym ARVN.

ARVN: Army of the Republic of Viet Nam: the South Vietnamese army.

Bru: Minority ethnic group of Viet Nam's central highlands.

CIB: Combat Infantryman Badge: awarded to American soldiers assigned to the infantry for having been in combat.

Combat Medic Badge: awarded to Army medical personnel for having performed medical duties while under fire.

E-eight: Enlisted soldiers have pay grades denoted by the letter ‘E'. E-eight is the pay grade for a master sergeant or first sergeant.

E-five: Pay grade for a sergeant. See E-eight above.

FULRO: French acronym for the Committee for the Autonomy of the People of the Western Plateau, also known as the Highland Autonomy Movement and the High Plateau National Autonomy Movement. It sought to establish a Montagnard autonomous zone in the Viet Nam highlands (source: Frank M. Lebar, Gerald C. Hickey, John K. Musgrave,
Ethnic Groups of Mainland Southeast Asia
, Human Relations Area Files Press, New Haven).

Jarai: Minority ethnic group of Viet Nam's central highlands and Cambodia.

Jeh: Minority ethnic group of Viet Nam's central highlands and southern Laos.

KIA: Killed in action.

MACV: Military Advisory Command Vietnam.

MIA: Missing in action.

Moi: Vietnamese word meaning savage; an uncivilized person.

Montagnard: Generic term for the minority ethnic groups of Viet Nam's central highlands.

Nung: Minority ethnic group of Viet Nam and southern China.

NVA: North Vietnamese Army.

Psyops: Psychological Operations.

Rhadé: Minority ethnic group of Viet Nam's central highlands and Cambodia.

Straight leg (
slang
): Soldier not trained to parachute out of an airplane.

Strike force: Irregular military unit trained, advised, and often led by U.S. Army Special Forces.

Tac Air: Aircraft used in support of ground tactical operations.

Tiger suits (
slang
): Style of camouflage uniform worn by U.S. Special Forces in Viet Nam and the units they trained and advised.

VC: Viet Cong: South Vietnamese irregulars who fought on the Communist side during the American war in Viet Nam.

VNAF: South Vietnamese Air Force.

WIA: Wounded in action.

XO: Executive officer.

JEROME GOLD is the author of ten books, including
Sergeant Dickinson
, which is based on his experience in the US Army Special Forces during the Vietnam War, and
Paranoia and Heartbreak: Fifteen Years in a Juvenile Facility
, taken from the journal he kept during his career as a rehabilitation counselor in a prison for children.