while the door gunner, pressing down on the trigger, kept his quad 60’s cracking out in one long continuous roar. A slick exploded as it pulled out.
A cobra swept in, running down the whole length of a nearby hedgegrove, cutting it apart with its mini guns. The company charging through the heat took the wood line. Stumbling through the bushes, they overran it, killing everyone they found. Panting, barely able to catch his breath, the platoon’s RTO found a wounded NVA, his shoulder and thighs smashed by the mini guns. Unable to move, he lay there, his AK broken beside him. The RTO shot him through the face.
It went on like that until the troopers had cleared the line. With the gunships moving out in front they found themselves on the edge of another paddy. Beyond was a thicker tree line. The platoon’s lieutenant, keeping low, moved out ahead.
“OK, OK,” he said; “come on, let’s go.”
No one moved. The med evacs were already coming in behind them.
“Lieutenant,” the Sergeant said, “they’re waiting.”
All along the grove, troopers were stretched out, looking grimly across the open paddy.
“I know, I know,” he said, “but the gunships shook them up, and the Major wants us to go. The quicker we get at ’em the better. Don’t want them to dig in.”
“Shit,” one of the troopers mumbled.
A machine gun opened up on their left flank.
“They’ve been dug in for twenty years,” someone else volunteered disgustedly. “Why don’t we soften the fucken thing up first.”
“Let’s go,” the Lieutenant said flatly. “That’s an order.”
Bitterly they got up, and the NVA let them get halfway across the field before they hit them. They had to pull back. A gunship coming in to help was hit by an RPD, scattering itself over 200 meters of Nam. Air strikes were finally called in and then, with gunships anchoring their flanks and artillery in rolling barrages, destroying the grove and cutting off any retreat, they moved out again. Another battalion was committed and then another. In the heat of it all, more choppers, flying close support, were shot down. Finally, on the second day, what was left of the 35th NVA regiment left whatever it was they had been fighting for and simply disappeared.
That afternoon the Americans, slinging their weapons, began counting bodies. The brass flew in, and to show how pleased they were, OK’d a policy of claiming a kill for every weapon found, even without a body. The exhausted troops, eighteen- and nineteen-year old kids, ignored the congratulations and simply went on stacking the bodies, throwing them into countable piles. It was the chopper pilots, though, flying in and out of it, right through the center of an NVA regiment and losing nine choppers, who summed up the bitterness of what had happened. At dusk of that last day of fighting, they flew in a CH-47 flying crane and slung a great cargo net below it. After the counting, they helped the troopers throw the NVA bodies into the net.
They filled the net quickly, and when it was filled, the crane, blowing up great clouds of dust, rose off the flat, pock-marked paddy. When the net had cleared the ground, the crane spun slowly around its center and, carrying its dripping cargo, moved off to drop the bodies on the path of the retreating NVA.
The next morning the two platoons were flown back to the rest of their company. That first night back they were hit again—two mortar rounds. The next day on patrol near the village, the slack stepped on a buried 50-caliber bullet, driving it down on a nail and blowing off the front part of his foot. When the medic rushed to help, he tripped a pull-release bouncing betty, blowing the explosive charge up into the air. It went off behind him, the explosion and shrapnel pitching him forward onto his face. Some of the white hot metal, blowing backwards, caught the trooper coming up behind him.
The men asked to take the village, and that afternoon the company commander, fed
A cobra swept in, running down the whole length of a nearby hedgegrove, cutting it apart with its mini guns. The company charging through the heat took the wood line. Stumbling through the bushes, they overran it, killing everyone they found. Panting, barely able to catch his breath, the platoon’s RTO found a wounded NVA, his shoulder and thighs smashed by the mini guns. Unable to move, he lay there, his AK broken beside him. The RTO shot him through the face.
It went on like that until the troopers had cleared the line. With the gunships moving out in front they found themselves on the edge of another paddy. Beyond was a thicker tree line. The platoon’s lieutenant, keeping low, moved out ahead.
“OK, OK,” he said; “come on, let’s go.”
No one moved. The med evacs were already coming in behind them.
“Lieutenant,” the Sergeant said, “they’re waiting.”
All along the grove, troopers were stretched out, looking grimly across the open paddy.
“I know, I know,” he said, “but the gunships shook them up, and the Major wants us to go. The quicker we get at ’em the better. Don’t want them to dig in.”
“Shit,” one of the troopers mumbled.
A machine gun opened up on their left flank.
“They’ve been dug in for twenty years,” someone else volunteered disgustedly. “Why don’t we soften the fucken thing up first.”
“Let’s go,” the Lieutenant said flatly. “That’s an order.”
Bitterly they got up, and the NVA let them get halfway across the field before they hit them. They had to pull back. A gunship coming in to help was hit by an RPD, scattering itself over 200 meters of Nam. Air strikes were finally called in and then, with gunships anchoring their flanks and artillery in rolling barrages, destroying the grove and cutting off any retreat, they moved out again. Another battalion was committed and then another. In the heat of it all, more choppers, flying close support, were shot down. Finally, on the second day, what was left of the 35th NVA regiment left whatever it was they had been fighting for and simply disappeared.
That afternoon the Americans, slinging their weapons, began counting bodies. The brass flew in, and to show how pleased they were, OK’d a policy of claiming a kill for every weapon found, even without a body. The exhausted troops, eighteen- and nineteen-year old kids, ignored the congratulations and simply went on stacking the bodies, throwing them into countable piles. It was the chopper pilots, though, flying in and out of it, right through the center of an NVA regiment and losing nine choppers, who summed up the bitterness of what had happened. At dusk of that last day of fighting, they flew in a CH-47 flying crane and slung a great cargo net below it. After the counting, they helped the troopers throw the NVA bodies into the net.
They filled the net quickly, and when it was filled, the crane, blowing up great clouds of dust, rose off the flat, pock-marked paddy. When the net had cleared the ground, the crane spun slowly around its center and, carrying its dripping cargo, moved off to drop the bodies on the path of the retreating NVA.
The next morning the two platoons were flown back to the rest of their company. That first night back they were hit again—two mortar rounds. The next day on patrol near the village, the slack stepped on a buried 50-caliber bullet, driving it down on a nail and blowing off the front part of his foot. When the medic rushed to help, he tripped a pull-release bouncing betty, blowing the explosive charge up into the air. It went off behind him, the explosion and shrapnel pitching him forward onto his face. Some of the white hot metal, blowing backwards, caught the trooper coming up behind him.
The men asked to take the village, and that afternoon the company commander, fed
Similar Books
