the area was cleared Sergeant Benet told a couple of skittish villagers to stand watch until we could send someone to take care of the grenade; then we started walking back to the battalion. Along the way I found my legs acting funny. My knees wouldn’t lock; I had to lean against a wall. Sergeant Benet put his hand on my arm to steady me. Then somethingwent slack in my belly and I felt a stream of shit pouring hotly out of me, down my legs, even into my boots. I put my head against the wall and wept for very shame.
“It’s all right, sir,” Sergeant Benet said. “You’ll be all right.” He patted me on the back. Then he said, “Come on, sir. You got yourself a little case of the turistas, that’s all. Here, that’s the way. Just a step at a time, sir, that’s right. Easy does it.”
The grenade never did go off on its own. Our ordnance disposal boys covered it with sandbags and triggered it with a dose of plastique. It was an American grenade, not some local mad bomber device. The odds of it failing like that were cruelly small—just about nonexistent, in fact.
That was my first close call.
M Y SECOND CLOSE CALL was of a more civilian character, the kind of thing that happens on road crews and construction sites. Still, it almost nailed me.
I’d been with the battalion for about six months. One of my jobs was to hook up our howitzers to Chinook helicopters when they were needed elsewhere in a hurry or when we were about to be inserted into an area we couldn’t reach by road. I would rig up the gun in a sling, then stand on top of it as the chopper slowly lowered itself toward me, flattening the grass, raising a storm of dust and dirt and paddy water against which I wore ski goggles I’d asked Vera to send me. When the Chinook was a couple of feet over my head, just hanging there, all lebenty zillion tons of it, I would raise a steel loop and work it onto the hook danglingfrom the bottom of the helicopter. Then I’d nod at the crew chief and the cables would tighten and creak and I’d jump down and the chopper would lift the howitzer straight up, then cumbersomely bank and turn and beat a slanting path slowly higher and away into the distance. You saw all kinds of things swinging under those monster helicopters: howitzers, trucks, other helicopters; even, after a fight somewhere, nets filled with body bags.
My big fear was that a Chinook would lurch down and crush me against the gun. This could easily happen. All it took was for one of the engines to miss, or the pilot to sneeze, or a sudden downdraft to hit the rotors. I was always on the scout for any sign of unsteadiness—not that I would have had time to do anything. But once the cables went taut I was free to jump, and jump I did, without decorum. While the helicopter maneuvered overhead I brushed myself off and gathered up the sling they’d tossed down for the next pickup.
In the early days I used to watch as the Chinook hauled its load into the sky; it was a strange sight, but I got used to it and had other things to attend to. I don’t know what made me look up this one time. Maybe I heard a new sound under the engine clatter and the whapping of the blades, a sound I didn’t even know I was hearing, a different sound than what my self-loving body had recorded as acceptable to its interests. Anyway, I looked up sharply. The Chinook was directly above me, sixty, seventy feet, executing an elephantine turn. The howitzer was swinging back and forth. From this vantage I could see nothing wrong, but even so I started to walk backward off the LZ, myeyes raised, and I saw the howitzer shift oddly in its sling, and shift again, and then the sling flew open and the chopper jumped like a flea. The howitzer seemed to fall very slowly, turning as it fell, and landed upside down with a painful blaring whang—more a sensation than a sound—and bounced once and settled. I felt the shock from my heels to my teeth.
This would not be a proper close call
“It’s all right, sir,” Sergeant Benet said. “You’ll be all right.” He patted me on the back. Then he said, “Come on, sir. You got yourself a little case of the turistas, that’s all. Here, that’s the way. Just a step at a time, sir, that’s right. Easy does it.”
The grenade never did go off on its own. Our ordnance disposal boys covered it with sandbags and triggered it with a dose of plastique. It was an American grenade, not some local mad bomber device. The odds of it failing like that were cruelly small—just about nonexistent, in fact.
That was my first close call.
M Y SECOND CLOSE CALL was of a more civilian character, the kind of thing that happens on road crews and construction sites. Still, it almost nailed me.
I’d been with the battalion for about six months. One of my jobs was to hook up our howitzers to Chinook helicopters when they were needed elsewhere in a hurry or when we were about to be inserted into an area we couldn’t reach by road. I would rig up the gun in a sling, then stand on top of it as the chopper slowly lowered itself toward me, flattening the grass, raising a storm of dust and dirt and paddy water against which I wore ski goggles I’d asked Vera to send me. When the Chinook was a couple of feet over my head, just hanging there, all lebenty zillion tons of it, I would raise a steel loop and work it onto the hook danglingfrom the bottom of the helicopter. Then I’d nod at the crew chief and the cables would tighten and creak and I’d jump down and the chopper would lift the howitzer straight up, then cumbersomely bank and turn and beat a slanting path slowly higher and away into the distance. You saw all kinds of things swinging under those monster helicopters: howitzers, trucks, other helicopters; even, after a fight somewhere, nets filled with body bags.
My big fear was that a Chinook would lurch down and crush me against the gun. This could easily happen. All it took was for one of the engines to miss, or the pilot to sneeze, or a sudden downdraft to hit the rotors. I was always on the scout for any sign of unsteadiness—not that I would have had time to do anything. But once the cables went taut I was free to jump, and jump I did, without decorum. While the helicopter maneuvered overhead I brushed myself off and gathered up the sling they’d tossed down for the next pickup.
In the early days I used to watch as the Chinook hauled its load into the sky; it was a strange sight, but I got used to it and had other things to attend to. I don’t know what made me look up this one time. Maybe I heard a new sound under the engine clatter and the whapping of the blades, a sound I didn’t even know I was hearing, a different sound than what my self-loving body had recorded as acceptable to its interests. Anyway, I looked up sharply. The Chinook was directly above me, sixty, seventy feet, executing an elephantine turn. The howitzer was swinging back and forth. From this vantage I could see nothing wrong, but even so I started to walk backward off the LZ, myeyes raised, and I saw the howitzer shift oddly in its sling, and shift again, and then the sling flew open and the chopper jumped like a flea. The howitzer seemed to fall very slowly, turning as it fell, and landed upside down with a painful blaring whang—more a sensation than a sound—and bounced once and settled. I felt the shock from my heels to my teeth.
This would not be a proper close call
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