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Doc Garver. “Not that we know of,” he whispered.
“Would you like to?” Lieutenant Diehl asked.
A broad smile spread over the Chief’s face. He was trailing his M16 by the front stock and slowly raised it up with both hands. That Strader was his squad leader made the prospect even sweeter. “It would make my ancestors very happy,” he said.
“Your choice, Reach. You go out on the supply chopper or on a medevac.”
Strader could see that further resistance was not only futile but, judging from the twisted grin on the Chief’s face, probably dangerous. He was sure the lieutenant was being facetious, but the look in the Chief’s eyes left little doubt that if the order was given, he might enjoy pulling the trigger.
“Chief, please don’t shoot Reach,” Doc said. “I just got comfortable.”
A distant pounding interrupted the farce. Every Marine in 1st Platoon sensed it; the sound seemed to emanate from their core, subtle thuds that punched the chest in rapid succession like little concussion grenades. At the lieutenant’s command, Franklin pulled the pin on the smoke and tossed it into the tall grass a few yards away. It pinged, sending the spoon spinning into the air, and the canister spewed clouds of yellow smoke that billowed up from the clearing on columns of hot air like a drawing chimney. In seconds an H-34 helicopter streaked over the clearing at ninety miles per hour, just above treetop level. Anyone who wanted to take a shot at it would have to be quick on the draw. The huge radial piston engine staggered the trees and made the ground quiver as the helicopter banked to starboard and climbed.
The H-34, officially designated the UH-34 D, was the workhorse of the Marines in the northern provinces of I Corps. While the Army flooded the southern provinces with the UH-IE, which looked like a scorpion and became universally known as the “Huey,” in the north, the Marines’ mainstay was a flying truck that looked like a grasshopper. The H-34 was forgiving, it could outcarry the Huey, and it could absorb enough punishment to sink a battleship and still stay in the air.
Bronsky held the radio handset out to the lieutenant. He had to shout to be heard. “Highball wants a sit rep, sir.”
Lieutenant Diehl grabbed the handset. “Highball, this is Pounder One. The LZ is secure, over. Do you read? The LZ is secure.”
“That’s good, Pounder. I’ll just set down on top of one of those trees and you can climb up and get your supplies, over.”
As Lieutenant Diehl watched, Franklin pulled the rings on the igniters and started running back to the CP screaming “Fire in the hole” at the top of his lungs.
Lieutenant Diehl grabbed Bronsky by the shoulder strap and pulled him toward the embankment. “Bring it in now, Highball. We’re throwing out the welcome mat. Over and out.”
Marines scrambled over the edge of the embankment, ducked behind high ground, and crouched behind any tree with enough girth to provide cover.
As the escort 34 swept away and banked steeply to port, the door gunner looked straight down on the jungle’s canopy, a roiling green sea. The supply 34 started a straight descent toward the clearing.
The copilot signaled the crew chief that they were going in, and the chief and the door gunner tucked the butts of their M60 machine guns into their shoulders. In the jump seats by the door, two Marines in newly issued gear and jungle utilities, their new jungle boots without a scuff, looked at each other with thinly veiled apprehension as the chopper shook and vibrated. Clumps of dirt danced around the riveted floor like the little plastic players on an electric football game. As the crew chief had demanded before takeoff, their M16s held no magazines and the chambers were cleared.
The door gunner leaned over with a toothy grin not meant to be comforting and shouted over the noise, “Stay away from the rear of the chopper. You can’t see the tail rotor spinning, and it will cut you in half. I don’t give a shit about you, but after it cuts you in half, we won’t be able to take off. So stay the hell away from the tail.”
Three rapid explosions jolted the ground, and shards of tree trunks shredded the surrounding foliage. Three trees hopped spasmodically in unison and collapsed with a crash into the grass. Before the branches stopped twitching Sergeant Blackwell was into the clearing with a detail involving half the platoon. They snatched up the trees and dragged them into the jungle, pulling and twisting until even the uppermost branches were manhandled clear of the LZ.
Even before the trees were completely concealed in the jungle, the 34’s tires were bouncing on their struts beside three splintered stumps. The huge rotors whipped the grass into a brown frenzy and tossed bits of tree trunk around like shrapnel. The crew chief was already pushing cases of C rations to the door. “Last stop, everybody out,” he yelled, pushing a carton into the arms of one of the passengers. “And don’t go empty-handed.”
The pilot lowered the collective and adjusted the engine’s rpms as a small group of Marines rushed the starboard side, stooping at the waist to avoid the deadly rotors. The two new guys hit the ground disoriented, each holding a case of C-rats under one arm. One of the approaching Marines pointed back to the edge of the clearing, and the replacements ducked down and headed to where the lieutenant and Bronsky stood watching.
The escort flew a wide arc above the clearing as cases of food and equipment were dragged through the cargo door of the supply helicopter and hauled away.
Standing next to Diehl, Strader watched the two new Marines approach. Their pants were bloused at the boot tops, and they wore their jungle utility shirts under their flak jackets, the sleeves rolled to the elbow. One set the C ration case at his feet and started to raise his right hand to the rim of his helmet.
“Don’t paint a target on me, Marine,” the lieutenant said. The new guy dropped his arm to his side. The other stood there, clutching his C rations.
Strader looked at the lieutenant with disbelief. “Two more FNGs, sir? I should stay to make sure—”
The lieutenant cut him short. He nodded at the grenade pouches on Strader’s belt. “Reach, give these two hard chargers your frags and smoke. You won’t need them.”
Strader dug the grenades out and handed them to the new guy without the C ration case.
All the gear was offloaded from the helicopter now, and the pilot was increasing the engine’s power. Lieutenant Diehl grabbed the radio handset. “Hold on, Highball. I’ve got one to go.” The pilot’s voice hissed through the speaker, and Diehl turned away and covered his other ear.
“Let’s move, Pounder. I don’t like your neighborhood.”
Strader wanted one last appeal. “But, sir,” he said.
“Chief, make sure the corporal gets on that chopper.”
The Chief took a menacing step forward.
“Okay, okay. I’m going. I don’t like it, but I’m going.”
The two Marines started across the clearing toward the helicopter as the rotors whipped the air impatiently.
Corporal Middleton ran in from the side and caught up. “Blackwell says you’re skying up, Reach. Is that true?”
“True enough, Carl. The lieutenant says I go or the Chief here will be wearing my hair on his belt. Right, Chief?”
“I’m not a chief, shitbird.”
Middleton slapped Strader on the shoulder. “I’ll see you in a couple days. Save me a beer.” He turned and jogged back toward his squad.
Strader tossed his pack through the helicopter door and started to climb on, then looked back. “You wouldn’t really shoot me would you, Chief?”
The Chief slung his rifle over his shoulder. “My name is Gonshayee, asshole.”
The door gunner extended a hand and dragged Strader in.
The pilot worked the collective, and the huge open exhaust roared, the rotors spinning until