did not slay the dragon.”
“No. But like all the dragons that have come to Vietnam, they are blind.”
“Blind?” Co asked.
“Yes. They underestimate us. They disregard our tenacity, and they ignore the simple fact that we will not lose because we will not quit. You remember, the French dragon lured the Viet Minh into Dien Bien Phu where they were sure they could destroy them with impunity because we could not put heavy guns into the mountains above them; but we did what they refused to expect.”
Co leaned back against the machine gun. “So, you think that is what we are now doing to the American dragon—something unexpected?”
Truong tried to banish the worried expression from his face. “I do,” he said.
They sat in silence for a while, then let the rhythmic beat of the rain on the tarp lull them into restless sleep.
First Platoon moved across the jungle floor, following the serpentine path cut by the point fire team. Shifts in terrain forced them to cross the stream many times. The rain seemed to grow heavier by the second, but the platoon pushed on to the northwest, working their way deeper into the Ong Thu range. Earlier, just before the rain, when their circuitous path took them to the edge of the trees, they could see smoke from village cooking fires in An Bang 3. Now they were back under the triple canopy again, fighting the rain and mud and heat. The Marines took comfort in the rain’s ability to drive flying insects to cover, but they knew that when the rain stopped, the mosquitoes would be back with a vengeance, looking for a warm meal.
The rain fell straight and hard, drenching everything from the crown of the canopy to the root systems deep below the jungle floor. It gushed down the foothills, collecting in ever-larger channels, to the stream that would carry it to the Song Thu Bon. And it soaked the Marines of 1st Platoon. Water poured from the rims of their helmets, ran down their arms, and dripped from their hands and weapons. Every plant they pushed aside dumped more water on their clothing. It soaked their jungle pants and followed the contours of their legs into their muddy boots. Everything they wore became heavier and more uncomfortable. Wet clothing clung to bodies, making movement a strain against the unforgiving fabric. The wet straps and heavy web gear rubbed wet skin raw. Flesh absorbed the water, wrinkling fingers and toes, making every minor abrasion a reason for the epidermis to peel away. Every step pushed the platoon further into the painful adventures of immersion foot. Those with experience hoped the rain would end soon so they would have time to dry out a little before nightfall, because nothing was more miserable than spending the long night soaked to the skin, wide awake with teeth chattering from the cold.
The FNGs, Haber and DeLong, were finding the going especially difficult. Each step drained their energy and every muscle protested even the slightest rise in the terrain. Although they weren’t yet aware of it, the rain was a godsend because it temporarily masked the heat. All too soon the rain would end, the heat would rise, and the jungle would become a steam bath, jacking their body temperatures up until they would feel like their helmets were the only things stopping their heads from exploding.
The lead fire team rotated the point frequently as the calluses on their hands turned spongy and peeled away against the dripping handles of their machetes, leaving pink patches of raw nerve endings. Haber followed DeLong in the column, and DeLong struggled to keep sight of the Chief’s back as he pushed through the brush. Visibility was poor, and the crashing rain smothered the sounds of the Marines’ movement, giving rise to spurts of panic when the path veered or the Chief increased his speed and DeLong thought he had lost the column. Within a few steps he would find a sign or catch sight of the Chief disappearing through the foliage ahead and a wave of relief would sweep over him. He had wanted to call out when the panic tightened his chest, but the others in 3rd Squad moved through the bush without speaking, and he didn’t want to be the one to break the silence. It was one thing to be a rookie; it was another to embarrass yourself making a rookie mistake. He wondered how the terror of thinking he was lost would compare to the humiliation of having the platoon blame him for actually losing the way. He made a silent prayer as he went, not to keep himself safe, but that he wouldn’t make a mistake that would shame him in the eyes of the other Marines.
Lieutenant Diehl radioed forward for the platoon sergeant and Blackwell stepped aside, letting the men file past him until the lieutenant reached his position. They leaned into each other as they walked so they could hear above the rain. “Meal break in fifteen, Sergeant,” the lieutenant said, tapping the crystal on his watch. “Let’s hope this rain stops by then.”
Sergeant Blackwell nodded. “We’re moving into some steep ground.”
“It’ll get a lot steeper,” the lieutenant said, resting a reassuring hand on the sergeant’s shoulder.
“I was hoping this was gonna be a cakewalk.”
The lieutenant gave the sergeant his best all-American grin. “So far, it has been.”
Five minutes after 3rd Platoon’s corpsman woke Strader from a sound sleep, he had his boots laced over his crusty socks and had pulled a wrinkled olive drab T-shirt from his pack, grabbed his soft cover, and was out the door into the pouring rain with his M14 slung over his shoulder. Leaping puddles, he moved away from the runway and toward the mess hall. The rain pounded the corrugated roofs, as though the drops were pebbles, and flew off the eaves in streaming arcs that made each building look like a fountain. The bunker sandbags had a polished sheen. A few other stragglers in ponchos were headed for a meal, and Strader wished he had taken the time to dig his rain gear out of the storage tent. But he was already drenched, and he was sure that soaking his rancid clothing in rainwater could only be a good thing.
By the time he reached the mess hall the line had moved inside, and he grabbed a partitioned metal tray with a wire hook on one corner and ducked through the door. Inside, wet ponchos hung through rifle straps or rolled into tight bundles dripped a wet pattern on the floor that followed the steam tables down the right side of the building. Big stainless steel coffee urns stood along the back wall. Strader followed the queue, collecting a strip steak, corn, mashed potatoes with a ladle of gravy, and a section of fruit cocktail. At the end, he dipped his canteen cup into a bin of ice and then filled it with water.
The personnel gathered for mess sat in groups segregated by assignment, MOS, or rank. The tanks and amtracs sat together. The 155 battery crews kept to themselves, their ears attuned to voices calling for a fire mission. The corpsmen from the battalion aid station made a small group at one table, sometimes joined by other docs assigned to the companies. Marines from line duty came and went in rotation, and the office personnel sat at the end of the sergeants’ table by the urns where staff sergeants and gunnery sergeants voiced their gripes to first sergeants over coffee and cigarettes. The lower ranks secretly called it the lifers’ table because they knew that these were the Marines who ran everything. The officers might give the orders, but the sergeants made the orders happen. They knew how things worked and how to get things done. When something was wrong with the green machine, the sergeants were the wrenches the officers used to fix it. The sergeants themselves identified more with the hammer than the wrench. You could tighten up a problem, or you could hit the problem so damned hard that it would fix itself.
First Sergeant Gantz looked up when Strader passed. He pinched his nose with one hand and covered his coffee cup with the other. “Damn, Marine,” he said, “do you have to stink like that?”
Strader stopped and let the miasma that surrounded him spread. “I blame it all on Charley,” he said.
