fifty dead gooks out here!” Zotter got the impression Dowd was trying to convince some rear staff officer when he ordered the dead NVA piled up on a cargo net. They folded the edges up, hooked them to a ring at the top, then secured the net to the underside of another Sea Knight. The chopper took off with the stuffed cargo net swaying below it, arms and legs sticking through the rope weave. It wasn’t much later that Zotter witnessed another example of the colonel’s grit. Dowd was resting, leaning back, when a Vietnamese voice suddenly shouted over the radio. Dowd grabbed the handset and answered his foe’s cocky shout with, “Come and get me, motherfucker!”
In accord with standard operating procedure, the initials and last four numbers of each dead man’s serial number were radioed to battalion rear on Hill 55. Lieutenant Peters, XO, D/1/7, choked when he deciphered their KIA report. Cashman had been in his platoon for three months.He was tall and handsome, blond hair, blue eyes, with a little teenage grunt mustache. A good guy, a damn good Marine. His body had been found where he’d been firing from, and was choppered to Graves Registration in Da Nang. Peters and an enlisted man who’d known the deceased were detailed to formally identify the body.
Cashman lay in a drawer at the 1st Med morgue, naked, hands stiffly crossed against his chest from their position in the poncho litter. His eyes were open, eyebrows arched, mouth in a circle of astonishment. There was only one mark on him, a single bullet hole right below his navel. Six inches of intestine hung from the hole.
Peters went through his gear. There was a high school graduation photo of Cashman’s girl friend and her last letter to him, talking marriage. Oh, this sucks, Peters thought, feeling ill. No one else’s death—and he’d lost four men as a platoon leader—had affected him like this. His mind was churning. Cashman was a handsome, smart, squared-away Marine. He’s dead. He was going to get married. He volunteered. He’s dead. His parents were immigrants; it’s not even their war. He’s dead. He’s an only son and he could have gotten out of going to Vietnam. And he’s fucking dead.
For what!?
The company clerk typed up the formal condolence letter to Cashman’s parents for the company commander to sign. Peters also wrote. He received a reply from the father, a sad letter with one message. Why
my
son? Peters wrote back that Cornelius Cashman was a Marine fighting for his country, which is how Peters always saw things. He didn’t hear from the father again until Christmas; there was ten dollars in the envelope and a note to buy some booze for his son’s platoon. Peters sent the bottle out to them in a mailbag. It wasn’t until ten years later that he worked up the courage to fulfill a promise he had made to himself. Mrs. Cashman answered the phone; he was very nervous, had no idea what to say, but she was a kind woman who remembered his letters. She made it very easy to talk.
That was all for later. When Peters returned to the company area, he told First Sergeant Headley, “Top, I can not hack this. Anymore IDs, you got it. I can’t hack this stuff.”
Chapter Four
What Marines Do Best
I t took Charlie Company and the Battalion CP two hours to reach Bravo Company’s hillock, after having moved out at first light on 12 August. In the rising heat spreading across the dead paddies, Lieutenant Hord saw the most startling sight of his year in Vietnam. It was the black communications wire that the NVA had strung, the guides for the NVA infantrymen as they crept in the dark towards the Marines. Bodies were clustered stiffly along the guides, some of the dead NVA still clutching the wire. Lieutenant Hord examined the dead as the company filed past. He could see thirty of them. They had new green fatigues, pith helmets, full web gear, two canteens, AK47 automatic rifles, and a few SKS carbines. Some had whistles and pistols. But what
In accord with standard operating procedure, the initials and last four numbers of each dead man’s serial number were radioed to battalion rear on Hill 55. Lieutenant Peters, XO, D/1/7, choked when he deciphered their KIA report. Cashman had been in his platoon for three months.He was tall and handsome, blond hair, blue eyes, with a little teenage grunt mustache. A good guy, a damn good Marine. His body had been found where he’d been firing from, and was choppered to Graves Registration in Da Nang. Peters and an enlisted man who’d known the deceased were detailed to formally identify the body.
Cashman lay in a drawer at the 1st Med morgue, naked, hands stiffly crossed against his chest from their position in the poncho litter. His eyes were open, eyebrows arched, mouth in a circle of astonishment. There was only one mark on him, a single bullet hole right below his navel. Six inches of intestine hung from the hole.
Peters went through his gear. There was a high school graduation photo of Cashman’s girl friend and her last letter to him, talking marriage. Oh, this sucks, Peters thought, feeling ill. No one else’s death—and he’d lost four men as a platoon leader—had affected him like this. His mind was churning. Cashman was a handsome, smart, squared-away Marine. He’s dead. He was going to get married. He volunteered. He’s dead. His parents were immigrants; it’s not even their war. He’s dead. He’s an only son and he could have gotten out of going to Vietnam. And he’s fucking dead.
For what!?
The company clerk typed up the formal condolence letter to Cashman’s parents for the company commander to sign. Peters also wrote. He received a reply from the father, a sad letter with one message. Why
my
son? Peters wrote back that Cornelius Cashman was a Marine fighting for his country, which is how Peters always saw things. He didn’t hear from the father again until Christmas; there was ten dollars in the envelope and a note to buy some booze for his son’s platoon. Peters sent the bottle out to them in a mailbag. It wasn’t until ten years later that he worked up the courage to fulfill a promise he had made to himself. Mrs. Cashman answered the phone; he was very nervous, had no idea what to say, but she was a kind woman who remembered his letters. She made it very easy to talk.
That was all for later. When Peters returned to the company area, he told First Sergeant Headley, “Top, I can not hack this. Anymore IDs, you got it. I can’t hack this stuff.”
Chapter Four
What Marines Do Best
I t took Charlie Company and the Battalion CP two hours to reach Bravo Company’s hillock, after having moved out at first light on 12 August. In the rising heat spreading across the dead paddies, Lieutenant Hord saw the most startling sight of his year in Vietnam. It was the black communications wire that the NVA had strung, the guides for the NVA infantrymen as they crept in the dark towards the Marines. Bodies were clustered stiffly along the guides, some of the dead NVA still clutching the wire. Lieutenant Hord examined the dead as the company filed past. He could see thirty of them. They had new green fatigues, pith helmets, full web gear, two canteens, AK47 automatic rifles, and a few SKS carbines. Some had whistles and pistols. But what
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