Carl Melcher Goes to Vietnam (Excerpt)
by Paul Clayton***Carl Melcher and his friend, Glock (McLoughlin) meet their squad for the first time on a firebase deep in the Central Highlands of Vietnam - 1968***
We followed Ted, the company clerk, through a shoulder-high trench which snaked from bunker to bunker. Twenty three line-bunkers encircled the hill. Ted dropped one guy off at the machine gun squad. I was glad that Glock and I would be in the same squad, the third squad. As I looked out on the jungle, I hoped that when I went down there it would be okay.
Third squad's bunker was on the steepest side of the mountain. Here the hill fell away sharply into a fifty-foot drop full of concertina wire rolls and tautly-stretched barbed wire. Beyond the wire the foliage began and the angle of the slope decreased slightly. From the trench I could see all of the valley and the mountains rising on the other side. A brown gash of earth, running for maybe a thousand yards, was visible in the middle of the valley. Glock pointed at it, wondering what it was. Ted said it was a bombed-out part of the Ho Chi Minh trail complex. As far as the eye could see, that scratch of brown was the only evidence of man's presence.
Ted led us inside the bunker. A man sat at a crude table, smoking a pipe and writing a letter. A picture of a woman and two children was propped up in front of him.
"Fellas," Ted said, "this is Papa, your squad leader."
Papa took the pipe from his mouth and rose to shake our hands. I could see why he was nicknamed, Papa. He looked over thirty, with a Mediterranean tan and brown eyes that held a fatherly warmth. The other person in the bunker was asleep in the top bunk, curled up like a cat, with his back to us.
"Well," said Ted, "I have to get back." He walked out.
Papa smiled. I was glad I'd ended up in his squad. He seemed like a nice guy. He showed us where we'd be bunking and we started putting our things away. Papa tapped the sleeping guy on the butt and he grunted in complaint. The guy spoke without turning around. "Okay, Jackson, you'd better have a good reason for waking me or we're gonna fight!"
He had a funny accent I couldn't place.
Papa and Glock laughed.
The guy sat up, looked down at us angrily, rubbed his eyes and said, "Oh!" His angry look faded to embarrassment. He was tall, maybe five eleven, but skinny. His face was pale, almost sickly, and he had black, olive eyes. After a moment his look turned suspicious.
"Lee," said Papa, "these are the new men."
We shook hands. Lee was friendly, although intense. He was from Ohio and my age, eighteen. We talked about home. Then Papa showed us some more pictures of his family. He was from St. Paul.
"How many guys are in the squad?" Glock asked.
Papa smiled. "Well, now that you guys have finally arrived, seven. There are three more guys out on patrol."
I stared out the little firing port built into the side of the bunker at the dirty green surface of the jungle. I remembered my friend Tom asking me back home, what if I had to kill somebody. That had thrown me for a loop.
Back in Basic Training during bayonet practice, the Drill Instructor would have us screaming at the top of our lungs, "kill! Kill!" while we thrust and parried with our rifles. I had always cracked up. I didn't hate anybody and I wasn't a killer.
Lee climbed down from his bunk. "So, you say you're from Philadelphia, Carl?"
"Yeah."
He laughed nervously. "When I heard we were getting replacements, I thought for sure we'd get more New Yorkers."
Papa turned and winked. "Lee doesn't like New Yorkers very much."
"Really?" I said.
Lee's face was pinched. "You got that right."
"I heard they're always in a hurry," Glock volunteered.
"I remember a waiter in a deli like that," I said. "My friends and I went up to New York City after we graduated. The waiter walked away when we didn't make up our minds right away."
Glock laughed and Papa interrupted. "Fellas, speaking of delis, we should get in line for chow."
We filed out the aperture, but Lee stayed behind.
"Aren't you coming?" Papa asked.
Lee shook his head, evidently still angry about New Yorkers. "Not hungry."
The line at the mess tent was short. I slopped some mashed potatoes and meatballs onto my paper plate. There was a tub full of purple Kool Aid and I ladled my cup full. Then I followed Papa and Glock back through the trenches to the bunker. We sat on the bunker roof under the bright sunlight. Below, the vast expanse of jungle shimmered in the growing heat. We ate quietly.
Ted, the company clerk, approached carrying a green patrol radio. A loud, staticy, unintelligible voice issued from it. Ted decreased the volume and called over to the guys at the next bunker, "friendlies on the way in." He turned and yelled to Papa, "I've got Ron on the horn right now. They'll be coming up through the wire any minute, okay?"
Papa nodded, putting down his plate. We stood and moved to the edge of the bunker. I looked down to where the maze of barbwire, mines and trip flares met the tangled green of the jungle. I could barely make out something moving through the greenery, then bamboo crackled loudly and they emerged, hunched over, the green rucksacks high up on their backs like humps, weapons cradled in their arms. They plodded slowly up the winding path like a team of mules tethered together, three black guys, soul brothers they liked to be called now, and a white guy bringing up the rear. One of them carried an M-79 grenade launcher and another an M-16 rifle and the radio. The point man was very dark, and carried a sawed-off, automatic shotgun. The white guy carried the M-60 machine gun. All four of them had belted machine gun ammo X-ed across their chests like Mexican banditos.
Papa called down to them. They looked up and waved feebly. I think they were too winded to say anything. The dusty-colored guy lost his helmet as he leaned back to see us. He quickly grabbed it and laughed. The darker point man's eyes were hidden behind a pair of wrap-around sunglasses. He frowned, as if he disapproved of the other's lighthearted display.
Once inside the wire, they dumped their rucksacks and sat. They were all sweating pretty bad; it must've been a rough climb up from the valley. The white machine gunner collected the extra belts of ammo and left.
The three soul brothers regarded us casually as Papa introduced us. The older, darker guy, Ron, made me a little uncomfortable. It was the wrap-around sunglasses, and not being able to see his eyes. He bent to his rucksack and took a map from it, never offering to shake our hands or anything. The tall, light-brown, thin guy suddenly reached out to shake my hand and introduced himself as Mike. He seemed friendly and outgoing. The tan-colored guy was Puerto Rican. I could tell by his accent. He smiled and said his name was Chico. They were all from New York City.
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