A story by William L. Smutko
Twenty-eight young men dressed in forest green class A uniforms with shiny new gold bars on their shoulders sit at attention in the company dayroom, waiting. To them it feels like a lot of their time has been spent waiting. The folding chairs are formed up, dressed right, and covered down. The men in them sit in alphabetical order by last name.
Relief and excitement pervade the room. Relief that the twenty-seven weeks of intense physical, tactical, and psychological training are behind them. Excitement about what the future will bring.
“I, Douglas Fuhlbreit, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So, help me God.”
“Gentlemen, take your seats,” says the battalion commander. “I use the word gentlemen because after taking the oath, you are now officers and gentlemen by act of Congress.
“I want to add special congratulations to Lieutenant Fuhlbreit. He graduated first in your officer candidate class and in the process broke all the Infantry School scholastic records. We expect big things from him in the future.”
At the reception after the ceremony, the company commander introduces the Infantry School commander to Lieutenant Black. “Colonel DesJardins, this is Lieutenant Paul Black,” says the OCS company commander. “Lieutenant Black, this is Colonel DesJardins, the Infantry School commander.”
“Congratulations on your commission, lieutenant,” says DesJardins.
“Thank you, sir,” says Black.
“I see special potential in him and was concerned for a while there,” the company commander says to the colonel. “I thought he’d join the other twelve who didn’t graduate.”
“Oh, one other thing, lieutenant,” says DesJardins. “Be careful about forming emotional attachments to those you’ll be serving with in combat. Some are probably going to die.”
* * *
With only the night shift on duty, the battalion Tactical Operations Center at Dong Tam is quiet. Fuhlbreit sits at his desk studying aerial photographs and maps of the area around Nhon Hoa. Major Ronstadt, the battalion S-3 operations officer, has tasked him with coming up with a plan to attack the Viet Cong stronghold there. He has also given the same task to three others in the S-3 shop. Ronstadt will take the best pieces of all four plans and merge them into one.
An explosion rattles the TOC and shakes the dust out of the canvas sides of the tent.
“What the hell was that?” Fuhlbreit shouts.
“I guess you’ve lost your cherry,” says one of the radio operators on duty. “Mortar attack. Time to head for the bunker.”
In the bunker Fuhlbreit sits shaking, his face deathly white as more mortar rounds explode across the compound.
A guy could get killed here. Glad I’m not out in the field.
* * *
“Specialist Wolf, front and center,” commands the platoon sergeant.
Wolf reports to the platoon sergeant in front of the formation. Lieutenant Paul Black, the platoon leader, steps forward and commands, “Parade rest.”
“Men,” he continues, “we’ve called Wolf up here to inform him he is no longer a specialist fourth class. He is now a sergeant E-5 and will lead the first squad. In the many combat operations, we have been on in the almost nine months I’ve been your platoon leader, Sergeant Wolf has demonstrated his leadership. It’s his time. A big hurrah for Sergeant Wolf.”
The platoon responds with “Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!”
Black ends the formation by saying, “The first round of beer is on me.”
* * *
Two days later, the company commanders, their executive officers, and the battalion staff are in the TOC.
“Attention!” the adjutant commands as the battalion commander enters. The tent is big, thirty feet long by twenty feet wide and sandbagged all around. Several radios and overhead lights heat the tent. Thirty men at 98.6 degrees add to the inside temperature, so everyone sweats. At least there is a wood floor to keep the black Mekong dust to a minimum.
“Gentlemen,” begins the CO, “tomorrow we are going on the offensive against Charlie. We’re going to Nhon Hoa.” He points at a location on the map hanging behind him. “Four years ago, three hundred fifty VC held off more than fifteen hundred ARVN forces at that location. Our battalion plus Delta and Echo Companies of the 3rd Battalion of the 70th Infantry will put boots on the ground at zero seven thirty tomorrow. Major Ronstadt will brief you on the plan. Major.”
“Lieutenant Fuhlbreit did most of the work on this plan, and it’s a good one,” says Ronstadt. “So, I’ll let him brief you.”
* * *
“Grab your canteen cups and meet in the first squad’s tent in five,” says Sergeant First Class Whitcomb. “Dismissed!”
In the tent, Whitcomb commands, “Attention!” as Lieutenant Black enters.
“As you were!” says Black. “You’ve all been instructed on where we’re going tomorrow and how to prepare for it. Sergeant Whitcomb, help me pour one ounce of Jim Beam into each canteen cup. For you new guys, don’t drink it right away. This is for our traditional pre-battle toast.”
Black lifts his canteen cup and says, “To the 1st Platoon, A Company, 4th Battalion, 70th Infantry, our former brothers and future victories.”
“One, A, Four, Seventy!” they all respond and down their whiskey.
* * *
It’s May and the rice paddies are dry. The UH-1 Hueys stir up the dust and dried rice stalks below them as their infantry cargo jumps from the hovering choppers.
It’s going to be a hot one. At zero seven hundred, it’s already eighty degrees Fahrenheit. It could hit one hundred.
The battalion forms a wedge pointed north along an old French provincial road overgrown with trees, grass, and shrubs. On the east side of the road, Company A leads in a line formation thirty feet between men. Company B follows on A’s right flank with Company C to the west of the road on A’s left flank.
Companies D and E 3rd of the70th mechanized battalions with armored personnel carriers are moving in on Nhon Hoa from the north in a pincer movement, but they are taking heavy fire. The battalion commander orders everyone south of Nhon Hoa to quickly move north to support the two companies under attack.
Company A’s 1st Platoon draws intense fire from camouflaged bunkers dug into the old roadbed on their left. The first ten men in the formation are cut down. The rest hug the ground, their faces in the black dirt.
Green VC tracer rounds fill the hot morning air. Lieutenant Black recovers from the initial shock of the attack from his left. He works his way back to his machine gunner, Sergeant Carl Kelly, and Kelly’s loader, Specialist 4 Regie Wrich. Black collects hand grenades from the other men near them, then tells Kelly and Wrich, “Follow me.”
Black leads the other two onto the road south of the east-facing VC positions. The three run to the side of the first bunker. Black, leaning against the side of the bunker, pulls the pin on a grenade and throws it inside. After it explodes, Kelly and Wrich rush to the entrance and gun down any surviving occupants. They then move to the next bunker and repeat the process. The three of them destroy twelve bunkers and kill sixty VC.
* * *
The heavy smell of whiskey permeates the olive drab canvas of the platoon leaders’ tent and assaults First Lieutenant Tom O’Neal’s nose as he flips open the door and walks in.
“To the 1st Platoon, A Company, 4th Battalion, 70th Infantry and all our former brothers. Sergeant Frank Wolf,” slurs Paul Black as he takes a drink from a bottle of Jim Beam. “To SP4 Harry Wong.” He takes another hit from the bottle. “SP4 Nick Piccolo.”
O’Neal lets Black toast his way through the names of all ten men he lost. Then O’Neal says, “Colonel Riley is putting you, Kelly, and Wrich in for the Medal of Honor.”
“Fuck the Medal of Honor,” Black shouts through tears. “I lost ten men, twenty-five percent, one quarter of my platoon. I led some of those guys for almost nine months. I’m the one who recommended Frank Wolf for squad leader. He was going to be one hell of a platoon sergeant someday.” He goes back to drinking from the bottle of whiskey.
* * *
“Where’s Lieutenant Black?” the company commander asks O’Neal.
“Probably sleeping it off.”
“This is the third time this week that he’s missed reveille. He needs to pull himself together. Go roust him out and get him moving.”
O’Neal steps into their shared tent. Black is awake, sitting on his bed in his skivvies. A loaded .45 cal. pistol is on the bed next to him and he’s staring at it. O’Neal steps back outside. “Go get the CO. It’s an emergency,” he tells a passing soldier and steps back into the tent.
“What are you doing with your .45? It doesn’t look like you’re cleaning it. And I haven’t seen a rat in here in weeks.”
Black just sits there, eyes fixed on the pistol. “Sergeant Frank Wolf,” he whispers, tears running down over his cheeks and off his chin. “Specialist Pete Bushanec.” He continues through the list of his killed men, then starts at the beginning again, almost a mantra.
The CO walks in, looks at Black, walks slowly over to him, and asks in a calm voice, “What’s with the gun, Paul?” He jumps on Black, knocking him off the bed and away from the pistol, and hollers, “Grab the gun, Tom.”
* * *
“Fuhlbreit, get your gear together. You’re going down to Alpha Company. They need a platoon leader more than I need an assistant S-3,” says Major Ronstadt. “The loss of his men has sent Paul Black over the edge. If you do as well leading that platoon as you did here in operations, this transfer should make your career.”
I’m dead!
* * *
“We lift off tomorrow at zero seven hundred,” says the company commander. “Have your platoons at the pick-up point at zero six thirty. That’s all, gentlemen. I’ll see you in the morning.”
The palms of Fuhlbreit’s hands start to sweat and his leg muscles tighten up as if he were ready to run. He gives the necessary orders to his platoon sergeant, then gets his own gear ready. His hands are starting to shake.
At the zero-six-hundred formation, he and his platoon sergeant inspect the men’s gear as beads of sweat form on his forehead.
Fuhlbreit and his men load onto the helicopters. He grabs hold of the leg of the seat he’s sitting in and holds on so tightly his knuckles turn white. At the landing zone, everyone jumps out of the Huey except him. The door gunner and copilot try to force his hands loose from the seat leg. He’s got a death grip on them, and they can’t pry him loose.
Over the radio the company commander’s voice comes out loud and strong, “Take off and go directly to division headquarters. Have Lieutenant Fuhlbreit arrested and confined for cowardice in the face of the enemy.”
this work was featured in issue #15a