WITHOUT GLORY: SHATTERED LIVES
Part Two
By Ken Smits
We continue our journey through Shattered Lives. Part One is in the August issue of FireWatch Magazine.
The whishing sound from the rocket-propelled anti-tank round permeates the air. I spin around, looking back down the path. A grayish-white smoke trail gives away the skillfully camouflaged grenadier’s position high in the trees to our right.
I see DJ as he turns his head slightly, just as a massive impact hits the middle of his back. The rocket hammers directly into the radio pack he is carrying. The force of the missile jolt picks the one hundred thirty-five-pound wannabe disc-jockey off his feet, tossing him into the air like a ragdoll, sending him on the ride of his life.
He lands in the thick underbrush near the trail. I see the look of astonishment on his face as he realizes he is not dead.
Ta, tow, tow, tow!
Loverboy swings around with the M60, firing controlled six-to-ten-round bursts of ammo into the enemy position given away by the rocket’s trail of smoke.
Whack, whack, whack!
I fire off several three-round bursts from my M16 from a kneeling position. Angry 5.56mm and 7.62mm rounds tear into the enemy’s body, leaving gaping holes as they exit.
Doc runs over to where DJ landed. Miraculously, DJ wasn’t killed when the RPG round impacted. The rocket destroyed the radio. As DJ and Doc remove the radio pack from DJ’s back, they discover a rocket sticking out of the radio, like an arrow. The round had been a dud.
Meanwhile, I take Gator and Frenchie, who each have a machete, to cut the heavy underbrush so we can check out the VC we shot out of the tree. The NVA is still out there; things quickly go from bad to worse.
Gator feels himself fighting for breath that’s been knocked out of him as he glares down at his battered chest. The pain suddenly registered in his head. He sees two bamboo sticks projecting out through his flack jacket. Warm blood runs underneath, dripping into his lap; a booby trap.
Damnit!
At the same time, a VC appears off to the right of Billings, Doc, and DJ; I quickly squeeze off three quick rounds, catching him in the side with one round and another in his back as he twists from the impact.
Frenchie, Worm, and I move forward. Heavy vines and brush grab at our feet. Within seconds, we flush out another VC. He jumps up within fifteen feet of us.
Ta, tow, tow, tow! Whack, whack, whack!
Frenchie and Worm open fire at the same time.
Whamp, whamp, whamp!
Sporadic gunfire erupts from at least two hidden locations to our front. Billings is screaming in clear, authoritative military terms, “Recon by fire!”
Frenchie, Worm, and I dive for cover. I remove three grenades from the sides of my ammo pouches, pull the pins in succession, and toss them into the extensive underbrush in front of us.
The rest of the team is firing blindly into the thick ground cover, searching for the enemy. M16s and grenades shred the foliage into splinters.
I hear Frenchie cry out, “Oooaahhh! Jesus, Ants!”
“You hit?” I ask as I crawl closer to him.
“N-n-not exactly,” Frenchie responds through clenched teeth. I can hear him slapping himself, “Ants, eating me alive.”
I see thousands of the big red creatures. “Move, damnit!” You’re on an ant mound!”
I grab his arm, dragging him off the mound. Frenchie, thrashing around and slapping at livid ants, moans, “Mo….ther…fuckers!”
I feel the ants dig their fiery mandibles into my skin. Each penetration burns like white-hot needles. “Shit, you sorry little bastards!” I follow Frenchie in the slapping ritual as the team continues to search out the VC.
Billings screams, “Cease fire! Cease fire!”
After three minutes of sending steel into the jungle, we’re relieved not to receive any more return fire.
The jungle grows eerily quiet except for the soft, pitiful crying masked somewhere in the underbrush. Worm and I walk towards the crying sounds, weapons at the ready.
We find a young VC lying on his back. His almond-colored eyes, floating in dampness, track our movement. I kneel next to him. His eyes illustrate fear and pain as they stare at me. Tears run freely from them.
“Xin-loi,” the young man moans, “Giup-do, toi.” (“Sorry, help me.”)
The salty, sweet smell of fresh blood is repulsive. I fight back the urge to puke.
Whack!
The blast startles me and rattles like hammers in my ears. Billings is pointing a smoking M16 at the body.
“Jesus Christ, Sarge!” I grind out the words between clenched teeth. “What the fuck? He was just a kid…for Christ’s sake!”
“Kid?” Billings glares angrily at me. He points his rifle at an SKS lying next to the lifeless body. “And I guess that’s a BB gun?”
