A Story Of Warriors Rev1
Albert Davis

 

Bonita was excited; she had finally talked her father into telling her and her friends about his time in Vietnam. She knew her father didn’t enjoy talking about his experiences over there, and rarely did, but she had heard him talking to Mom a couple of times and the little bits she had garnered from those brief and muted conversations had piqued her interest. So she had pestered and pestered him for nearly a week until he had finally given in.
 
Bonita and her friends, Meagan, Lindsey, Gail, and Afton were all sitting in the living room waiting for her father to come in. Bonita’s mother was in the kitchen preparing snacks for the whole crew and talking to Bonita’s father. Every now and then the impatient girls would hear muted laughter from the kitchen. It was difficult for them to contain their excitement; this was not the first time Mr. Davis had consented to telling them about things. Mr. D, as the girls called him, always told interesting and exciting tales about life and the people he had met. Bonita truly loved bringing her friends over to talk to her father and none of them had ever turned down an invitation. Bonita’s father was a gifted storyteller. Bonita remembered the times, when she had been much younger, and her father had told her tales of Brer’ Fox and Brer’ Rabbit.

The girls were whispering to each other about this boy or that boy when her father and mother came into the living room. The girls were instantly alert and without conscious thought they all moved to the edges of their seats. Bonita’s mother and father entered, one with a tray of soda, the other carried a tray of chips & dip and small finger sandwiches. They were making this an event and the girls liked that.

They set their burdens down and took seats themselves. The young ladies all grabbed sodas and plates of chips pushing each other and squealing in delight.

“Ok, ladies, settle down,” Mr. D spoke softly. The girls quieted immediately and began to pay close attention to Mr. Davis. Mrs. Davis sat back in her seat a small smile on her face as she watched Bonita and her friends. Mrs. Davis loved to listen to her husband as much as any of the girls. She, however, knew much that the girls did not and never would know.

“Well, ladies,” Mr. D began. “I’m going to tell you about my last mission in Vietnam. It was in March of 1969, and my team and I were set to go out on a recon mission. I was part of a LRRP team. That stands for (Long-Range Reconnaissance Patrol) and pronounced-Lurp. I was part of the eight man Echo Team, code named-Tombstone Drifters-and we were deep bush experts. The team and I often spent long periods in the bush, that’s what we called the Vietnamese countryside. Sometimes we’d stay out a month or more without ever seeing a base camp. Like I said, we were used to it.

Anyway, let me tell you about the guys that belonged to the Echo Team. First, there was Randle Middleton, a twenty two-year-old kid fresh out of a college ROTC program at Michigan State. He was clean as a whistle and as wet behind the ears as any country fresh mud puppy. I always wondered how the hell he had ended up on a bush team, then one day I heard him tell another lieutenant that he had volunteered. I knew I was going to have to keep an eye on this boy; he was just the kind to get your butt shot off trying some John Wayne movie stunt. He was scared of me though and I figured that was a good thing.

The radio operator’s name was Richard Edwards, but we called him Johnny Walker. The nickname came from his favorite beverage, Johnny Walker Scotch Whiskey, which he consumed in large quantities whenever we were in base camp. Johnny couldn’t shoot straight drunk or sober a situation that made us all very happy he was the radioman.

Our M60 machine gunner’s name was Jacob Albertson. He was from somewhere in Iowa and was possibly the friendliest man I have ever met. Big Jake stood about six foot and four inches and weighed somewhere around two hundred and sixty pounds, no fat found. I’ll let you figure out why we called him Big Jake. As you may have imagined nobody ever really wanted to see the big guy angry, so nobody ever forced an issue with him.

Next we have the Windy City Twins, Pooter and Snake, they were both from Chicago and so naturally they was bestest buddies from the first time they met, if you don’t count the two fights they had first. Those were just lets get to know each other episodes and didn’t mean a lot.

Pooter received his nickname because he loved beans, that boy could eat beans, all kinds of beans, morning-noon-night. Well, that’s not altogether true, he did like beans quite a bit, but he got his name more from the effects those beans had on him than from the beans he ate. I’ll just say you didn’t want to be down wind when Pooter was hit’n on all cylinders. Pooter’s real name was Raymond Goodman and he was from Cicero.

Phillip Toland was Pooter’s Chicago buddy and the consensus was that he had probably been given a choice, jail time or military service. Nobody knew for sure. Snake, Toland’s nickname, was almost certainly affiliated with one of the city’s Southside gangs. That Pooter and Snake were friends is one of those oddities of war, Pooter was a white factory worker from Cicero and Snake was a black, possible drug dealer, from the South Tower in Caprinni Green. A strange pair at best, but they seemed to truly like each other, after the fights. In the Nam that was OK, I don’t believe the relationship could ever survive a trip home. Oh, yea-Snake was thin as a rail.

Ray Gun, was a Mexican from somewhere in the Southwest or maybe Mexico. Who knew? Ray Gun got his name because one time he took something and he spaced-out at a staff briefing and started shooting aliens right there in the staff meeting. On more than one occasion he had also had intimate conversations with the Virgin Mary. Nuff said about Carlos Raza, alias Ray Gun.

Wop Johnny, Vincent Corleone, how they got Wop Johnny outa that I’ll never understand and I didn’t ask. Anyway, he was from New Jersey, pretended to be mob connected, and wanted to be thought of as a dangerous man. Corleone may or may not have been his real name; nobody knew for certain and nobody cared.

I was the last member of the Tombstone Drifters, Staff Sergeant Davis, Papa D, and a lifer on my second tour in country and said by many to be as hard as nails. I can’t tell you how true that was or wasn’t, but no soldier of mine ever ran out of gas in the bush.

That was Echo Team; don’t get me wrong when I describe them to you. What I have told you is a very superficial and by no means a total thing. Some people might doubt the efficiency of this group…don’t. The Echo Team weren’t called the Tombstone Drifters for nothing. Every man jack of them had done time in the bush and dropped the hard-line more than once, except the Lt.. The Lt. Was new but everybody else had done a year or better of hard time.

War is a different kind a thing. The crap that will pass in the world doesn’t hold water in war. You see, all the things you learned to hate and pick at about people when you were back in your own safe little world, that’s what gets you straight up killed out in the bush. No, don’t believe that because they all had weakness’ and little quirky ways that they weren’t efficient at what they were about. The Tombstone Drifters were a unit.

Anyway, we left the base camp, March of 69; I think it was the fourth or fifth day of the month when we hit the fence. I don’t really remember and it’s not that important when we left.

We had been beating the bush for six or seven days and were moving in a standard ambush formation. Wop Johnny was walking point, Pooter was holding the lead, Snake and Ray Gun were the left and right flankers, Johnny Walker and the Lt. Were center trail, and me and Big Jake were pull’n the drag. We had spotted sign on the trail of a fairly good size force of NV (North Vietnamese) Regulars, but we hadn’t made any contact, so we were step’n kind a light and look’n out for trouble.

But let me tell you what I remember best about that trip…it was the heat…the humidity…the pain. You walk through the damp, dense, thick jungle, and those things are there with you, always. Your thoughts seem disconnected yet concrete, your feelings are always close to the surface and at the same time very distant.

I can feel the jungle’s heat. You know, like the heat when you open an oven and that first blast of hot air makes you pull back abruptly. But this heat does not go away, and you can’t pull away from it…ever. There is no escape from it. The heat causes your eyes to hurt; it makes you forever thirsty; it becomes a part of your life, like family.

The heat is like your father stern and hard, but the humidity becomes your mother, holding and enveloping you. She draws you in and encompasses you entirely. She smothers you with her attentions and surrounds you with her presence. The humidity has weight and even texture; you can feel and taste it. It can be touched; it can be held; it can be loved. It wrinkles your skin beneath clothing you can’t ever remember being dry, and like your father mother is always there.

Then there’s that relative your unwanted relative, who always shows up unbidden, that old drunk uncle…pain. And just like all unwelcome relative, pain comes and hangs around with no thoughts of leaving. It brings with it all of its baggage and every one of its bad children and simply refuses to depart. Shoulder-aching, back-numbing, leg-cramping, dull, throbbing pain. The pain is a walking, talking, in-your-face constant companion. The pain even becomes a close friend, because it reminds you that you’re alive.

These are the things that I think of and feel as we walk through the heavy jungle, listening and waiting. Recon’s are always about waiting, waiting for action, waiting for rain, waiting for the heat, waiting for the pain, waiting for death.” Mr. D paused for a second and looked at the attentive faces of Bonita and her friends. He glanced at his wife and smiled, then continued.

“Anyway, we were sweat’n through the bush cause that was our job and we was work’n it. You know, I can still remember what I was think’n that day, I was thinking about my socks. I was think’n about being able to take off the ones that were soaking wet and wearing the skin off my feet and changing into the damp ones in my pack. Yea, I was think’n about my feet when all hell broke loose.

 The heavy jungle air erupted with the high clack and rattle of AK-47’s and the dull pop of the jungle foliage being punctured by the shells. I soon heard screams of pain mingling with the sound of gunfire. The sound of the AK’s became tangled with the tapping staccato of our M16’s as those up front immediately began to return fire and move.

Then, to my utter amazement and horror I heard the Lt. Shouting telling everyone to take cover. I screamed as loud as I could no, no, no. I motioned Big Jake to follow me and we plunged into the bush flanking the position of the VC ambush site. I could still hear the AK’s but I thought I could only hear one of our 16’s answering.

Jake and I rushed forward, suddenly we hit one end of the enemies ambush; Jake and I started pumping heavy fire into the enemy. I could hear the VC start to scream as our fire found targets and I also heard another 16 join mine and Jake’s M60. The sound of the AK’s began to die out and we soon heard the enemy retreating into the jungle. We advanced.

The air was thick with smoke and the acrid smell of cordite as we moved ahead. We found some dead VC and we could hear the others as they retreated back into the jungle. I called out for the lieutenant; I got no answer. I called Johnny Walker and still got no answer. Then, from the jungle a voice called out, “Papa D, that you?” “Yea, Vincent, it’s me and Jake get on over here,” I hollered. A moment later Vincent joined Jake and me and we moved on.

We broke onto the scene of the ambush and found the bodies of the rest of Echo Team. We collected dog tags and buried the bodies, we couldn’t carry em out and we wouldn’t leave em for Charlie. We grabbed as much ammo as we could get and prepared to get out of there. We had run into an ambush and I figured it must have been part of the large force we had been seeing the sign of for days; they would be back to make certain they got all of us and to pick up their dead.

We said a few words over our brothers and hit the trail hard and fast. The three of us hadn’t been on the trail more than two or three minutes when we could hear the enemy returning to the ambush site. From the noise they was make’n I knew this was a big bunch of VC, and they was on our trail quick time.
 
I told Jake and Vincent to keep it quiet and to move smartly, cause this was going to be a damned close thing at best. We had a serious need to get out of this area pronto and undetected. We moved smooth and easy through the bush for about twenty minutes and I was start’n to feel a whole lot better about our situation and it was beginning to look like we were going to make it out of this mess so we started to relax a little. The tension lifted the weight of fear from our shoulders and a gentle breeze blew the stink of death from our minds; small smiles of relief began to play across the faces of the men and we started to talk to each other in whispers as we moved.

You know, I should have known better, if it hadn’t a been for bad luck, we wouldn’t a had no luck at all. We broke out of the jungle into a small clearing about fifty yards wide. At the same time we came out on one side of the clearing about twenty or so VC came out of the jungle on the other side.

The last three members of the Tombstone Drifters stood looking into the stunned faces of the enemy. I remember Vincent uttering some very profane comments about the situation and Jake mentioned something about the smell. But, the important thing was, that on this day the last members of the Tombstone Drifters were the fastest. As those VC soldiers stood looking at each other we brought our weapons to bear and laid down the law.

When we began to fire several of the VC screamed and hit the dirt and the rest broke out of their stupor, jumped back into the jungle and returned fire. By that time we had already plunged back into the jungle yourselves. We was haul’n it and I do mean we was move’n. The rest of them VC crashed through the jungle after us; they was shoot’n and holler’n and generally raise’n all sorts of hell. The three of us were part’n the bush at a high rate of speed and every now and then we would spray the jungle behind us just to keep our pursuers as honest as they was keep’n us.

We ran and shot our way through the jungle in this manner for over thirty minutes but we couldn’t shake our pursuers. We plunged through the heavy foliage, slid down steep banks, splashed through shallow streams, and crawl-ran up hillsides; still we could not elude those who followed. Our breath was coming in rasping gulps and we were all drenched in sweat. Our muscles screamed in agony but the fear kept the blood rushing through our veins and our bodies moving. Our only consolation was the idea that the enemy couldn’t be doing any better than we were. We were simply hoping to out last them.

Suddenly we broke out of the jungle again and slid down a steep muddy embankment, crossed a very shallow stream, we actually jumped over it, and came face-to-face with a sheer muddy bank that rose twenty to thirty feet straight up. Remember I told ya about that luck thing, it hadn’t changed.

We was stand’n in the middle of this mud cliff face; you could see the thing standing tall and blank from the jungle floor at least a mile in either direction. We could hear the VC close behind and knew it was only a matter of seconds before they crested the opposite bank. Things looked truly dark for the Tombstone Drifters, real bad luck was a rap’n on our door.

I looked at Jake and Johnny. Big Jake shrugged his massive shoulders, hefted the heavy M60 and smiled at me. “Looks like it’s time to join the rest of the gang, huh sarge,” he asked, as he slammed back the charging handle of the machinegun? He seated the stock of the M60 against his hip, John Wayne style, and stood ready.

Vincent Corleone, who wanted to be thought of as a dangerous man, looked at me as a single tear rolled through the sweat and grime down the side of his cheek. Vincent swore at the unfairness of life, crossed himself, promised to be good in the here after and prepared to meet his maker.

Me…well…I was a career man; I just figured this was how I was supposed to check out. I pulled the charging handle on my 16 and prepared to pay the cost of war.”
Mr. Davis stopped and got up from his seat, he stretched his back and shoulders, fingers intertwined above his head. He sighed and headed toward the kitchen. As he walked toward the kitchen door, the girls first looked at each other in total confusion, then in disbelief. As Mr. D started into the kitchen Bonita cried out in anguish, “DADDY!”

Mr. D stopped and turned around to face the young girls, “What is it Baby Girl,” he asked in a soft quiet voice. Bonita shrugged her shoulders and looked with amazement at her confused friends and then asked in a strident exasperated voice, “Well, what happened?”

Mr. D looked at his daughter and her friends slowly shook his head a sad, sad look on his face. Then in that soft quiet voice he said, “Well, Baby Girl, those VC came over the top of that hill and we let em have it. We gave em all we had and they gave it right back. When the final shot was fired there was no more Echo Team, we were all killed.”

The girls were stunned into total silence and Mr. D left the room. The young ladies sat where they were for a full ten seconds as what Mr. D had said sunk in. They looked at each other bewildered, at a loss for any form of expression, and then they exploded into a chorus of squeals of protest and laughter.

Bonita’s mother was laughing along with the girls when Mr. D peeked back around the corner smiling at his daughter.

 

 

Copyright © 2005 Albert Davis
Published on the World Wide Web by "www.storymania.com"