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by James Donzella
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Routine is what the Colonel said. Just routine—no biggie—piece of cake.
“Arrange for a helicopter tomorrow at 0800,” Colonel Patrick said. “Weapon and flack-jacket.”
I stood there. Stomach began to flip.
“0800. Yyyesir.”
“You have a camera?”
“Yeah.”
“Bring it. I want you taking photos.”
“Me, sir?”
Colonel began to give me the rundown. I half listened as nausea creeped in, like I’d drunk a pint of sour milk.
“Artillery unit in An Khe experienced aborted firing missions aborted on three occasions, all the result of misfires. I want to inspect the supply depot in Qui Nhan.”
I didn’t eat much at dinner. U.S. troops were slowly thinning as ARVN soldiers took on more responsibility. It was not a comfort. We were still sending home our boys in body bags. It was a scary time. Blend in-low profile was my mantra. Another day of my 365-day tour and another day closer to a flight out of this hellhole.
***
I lay on my bunk, smoking. My brain creating scenarios of every possible thing that could go wrong, from getting shot down to engine failure T-Bone strolled in after a while.
“There’s a hot poker game goin on in the club.”
I didn’t acknowledge the statement.
“You’re not worried about flyin’ tomorrow are ya?”
“A chopper went down last week, man.”
“ARVN chopper! Ya got nothin’ to worry about.”
Not much sleep logged that night. Artillery Hill received a couple firing orders, 2130 hours and again at 2300. Target was some twenty miles to the north, so shells flew directly over II CORPS compound. 45th Artillery’s two howitzers would fire in rapid succession, then eerie silence as they reloaded, followed by two quick reports again. It went on for half an hour. Couldn’t hear the detonations, but someone was getting an ass-woopin’ tonight.
***
0800, it was oppressively hot already. Colonel P, Specialists Harvey Jenkins, and I waited at the helipad. Jenks was a quiet guy, read philosophy to relax. Seemed if you had a question about something, he knew the answer. When I complained about an inability to sleep through the night, he introduced me to meditation. He snatched up an extra field jacket when he discovered I needed to fly in a chopper. My jacket stuffed in a bag at my parent’s home. Didn’t think I’d need cold weather gear when the average temperature in Nam felt like 400 degrees.
Chopper landed, we quickly boarded. Right door gunner, Spec4 Rodrigo “Roddy” Salazar was on the mission. He must have flown a hundred of these missions, taxiing staff officers here and there. I felt better with Roddy aboard. I’d covered him for a five-buck raise in a poker pot a week ago.
“You got that finski you owe me?!” I yelled.
“Plan on winnin’ it back, Friday,” Roddy said with a grin. “Not gonna’ break my legs are ya?”
“Thinkin’ ‘bout it.”
***
Wasn’t much talking once airborne, yelling at the top of one’s lungs, very strenuous. Trip would take a little over an hour. Fifteen minutes in, that feeling of dread vanished. I took some pictures inside the chopper. Passing over a stream, winding through the grasslands, Roddy changed places with me so I could get some shots through the open door.
We landed, picked up by an ARVN Lieutenant, Nugyen Van Lai, in a three-quarter ton truck. He drove us to the supply dump. That’s exactly what it was, a dump—shacks in disrepair, trash, empty boxes and other junk cluttering the area, a mess. Colonel P’s countenance registered stern disapproval.
“Personnel shortage,” Lieutenant Lai stammered.
It was the drawdown. Never enough GIs to do the work.
“Many problems with people,” Lai said.
“Take me to ordnance storage,” Colonel P commanded.
We walked around trash and broken-down generator cannibalized for parts. Two-and-a-half-ton truck parked next to a supply tent, one of its double rear tires missing, no spare under the bed. Loaded down vehicle like that with a missing wheel was not very safe to drive. I imagined there might be another duce-and-a-half somewhere with a missing wheel and no spare. This place was coming apart at the seams.
We reached the ordnance supply warehouse. Tarp, attached loosely to the roof, flapped in the breeze. Inside it was damp, smelled musty, water collected in puddles. Conditions were worse out behind the building. Artillery shells, piled in stacks four feet high left uncovered. I estimated that the stacks had originally been five feet high, a least a foot of ordnance had sunk into the mud. I snapped pictures through the entire tour. Colonel P had seen enough.
Jenks went to work on inspecting the ordnance. I took some photos then followed Colonel P and Lieutenant Lai to Major Booth’s office.
***
“Requisitions for supplies right now are in a state of who has what,” Major Booth said.
“How’s that monitored?” Colonel P said.
“Frankly sir, it’s not. I go by a supply list. If it’s ARVN supplies I send a rec.”
Jenks came to the Major’s office; the look on his face said it all.
“I don’t believe we can salvage any of that ordnance sir.” Jenks said to Colonel P. “There’s artillery shells completely covered in mud.”
“I’m recommending disposal of it all. I’ll get some people down here to clean things up. I’ll call Colonel Tran immediately and apprise him of the situation.”
“Thank you sir,” Major Booth said humbly. “Sometimes it’s like pulling teeth to—”
Colonel P heaved a sigh and said, “I know.”
***
Colonel P made his phone call. Jenks tagged the ordinance that needed disposal and at 1015 hours, we left for Pleiku. It was routine, I thought to myself, but that bad feeling returned. Airborne for nearly forty-minutes, staring out the front window when I saw the co-pilot jerked his head to the right and the ship banked hard right. Roddy’s 60 opened up. We were taking fire from the creek below. I saw flashes zip by the front of the ship. Blood drained down to my boots. Roddy’s 60 kept hammering away. Left gunner started firing. Jenks, Colonel P, and I tossed side to side on the bench as the chopper banked left then right. My jaw, shut tighter than a clam’s ass at high tide, braced for a crash landing. Rounds were coming at us from both sides. I prayed. This is going to kill my mother when that uniformed officer comes to the house.
Roddy let go of what seemed a thirty-second burst when suddenly his 60 went silent. I watched as he opened the cover. He had a jam. Wisps of smoke rose off the barrel. Roddy stuck his gloved hand into the chamber when there was a flash. Roddy had a “cooker”—chamber so hot a jammed round had exploded—backfired into his face. The explosion threw him back. Brass shell casing shrapnel flew back across the chopper hitting SP5 Morehouse in the helmet and flak jacket. Frozen in fear it tried to move, but none of my muscles worked.
I yelled. “RODDY! OH MY GOD!”
Jenk’s pulled Roddy’s hands away from his face. It was a bloody mess.
“DON’T MOVE! CAN YOU HEAR ME?” Jenks yelled.
I sat there, limbs unable to move. Jenks covered Roddy’s face with a sterile bandage.
“PULL HIS COM AWAY!” Jenks yelled
I couldn’t process the word ‘com’.
“HIS COM!” Jenks yelled.
I pulled Roddy’s com-mic away from his mouth.
“IT BURNS!” Roddy yelled
SP5 Morehouse, the left door gunner, called the pilot on the intercom. The pilot swung around.
“HEADED FOR EVAC!” Morehouse shouted.
“KEEP YOUR HANDS DOWN,” Jenks said as he poured water from his canteen on the bandage. “YER GONNA’ BE OKAY.”
Colonel P held on to Roddy’s hand, I forced myself to move to Roddy’s gun position. I stuck my left index finger in the chamber, got a nice burn. I pulled on the cocking lever but it wouldn’t move. With every ounce of strength I could muster, I yanked at it again, to no avail. It hardly moved a sixteenth of an inch. I let out a scream. I wanted someone to pay for this as I slammed my fist on the feeder cover in frustration several times.
***
Fifteen minutes later, we set down on the Dust-off Pad at the EVAC hospital. Three medical staffers were waiting with a gurney and medical supplies. We stood for a moment as they wheeled Roddy into the hospital. Jenks, Colonel P and I walked back to HQ. Not a word exchanged between us. Roddy’s blood darkened areas of Jenks shirt to almost black.
We entered the compound. Jenks went to his hooch to change clothes.
“Come with me,” Colonel P said.
Followed my boss to the Officer’s Quarters and to his billet, it was dark and cool inside.
“I’m sorry, sir. I froze.”
“Scotch or bourbon,” he said.
“Bourbon, sir.”
In a small cabinet, the Colonel retrieved a bottle of Jim Beam. The room had a small round café table and two chairs. He set the bottle on the table. He removed two glasses from the cabinet, ice tray from the fridge.
“Have a seat.”
The Colonel set the glasses and ice on the table. He put ice in one glass. I put ice in the other. He poured two fingers in each.
“Jenkins did a fine job today.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Quick thinking. He’s a good man. I’m putting him in for a commendation.”
I was shaking.
“I really screw up…I don’t know…I guess I’m—”
“You didn’t’ screw up. You were in the state of shock. It happens.”
“All this seemed… surreal. I didn’t know what to do!”
“You did know. You covered Salazar’s position. You represented yourself well.”
We finished our drinks and I headed to the showers to wash as much as I could away. I changed into a fresh uniform and walked over to the hospital. I needed to check on Roddy. Nurse told me Roddy was asleep, given a sedative. Jenks quick actions had saved Roddy’s eyes.
“Pieces of brass shell casing still needed removed,” she said. “He’ll need a trip to Japan for that surgery. After that he’s home, for good.”
“Million-dollar wound. Gotta tell Jenks.”
“Jenkins? Was here just twenty minutes ago.”
“Okay. I’ll come back later then.”
***
The next day it hit like a punch in the head. Restless sleep, replaying the incident in my mind, by the end of the workday, exhaustion had taken over. I didn’t even eat dinner. I crashed and the next thing I remembered was the alarm waking me.
\When noon rolled around I jogged over to the hospital, but Roddy had left for Japan that morning. I’d never see Roddy again. I still wake up in the middle of the night from time to time, Roddy screaming. Never did find out where he was from. I suppose I could do a search, maybe get in touch, see how he’s doing. Hell, he still owes me five bucks.
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James Donzella lives in Northern California. He is an active member of the UCLA Wordcommandos Creative Writing Workshop for Military Veterans and currently finished his first novel Longer Than A Year a story about the Vietnam War. He’s worked as an ad copywriter, actor, and screenwriter. His short stories have appeared in Everyday Fiction, The War Horse, and the Seven Gill Shark Review, to name a few.
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