Fire Fight

Fire Fight (Excerpt from Purple Ozzly, by Dan Thomason)

Eight of us were loaded onto a Huey helicopter and flown down to Sum Dam Ho. The Landing Zone wasn’t supposed to be hot, so there was a good chance we would be dropped off for a quick recon and then out of there. I was squeezed onto the metal bench between two other infantrymen. This was going to be my first drop. We balanced like a pendulum under the rotors five hundred feet over the jungle. I had a pretty clear view of the pilot in the left seat, and he looked like he was fully in charge. His hands and feet and head moved in subtle ways like a jazz drummer working his brushes in a soulful passage. I couldn’t really hear what he was saying on his intercom, or at least I should not have been able to. He turned his head slightly as he balanced the control stick in his hand, and I swear I heard what he said. “Roger, Black Horse eight-seven-niner. A measure of wheat for a penny. You copy?” Dear God, I was losing my fucking mind. It wasn’t surprising. One minute I had been diddy-boppin’ around Southern California free and easy, and the next I was at Camp Pendleton for six weeks of shake ‘n bake basic training, and I thought things couldn’t get any worse. Then I stepped off an airliner into the oppressive heat of Nam. I was hit with an acrid stench and flashed on creating a harmless shower of sparks in the street in front of our house – maybe with a roman candle packed with napalm, shit, piss and burning human flesh. I had a sensation of falling as I realized I was in a war and there was no way out. The falling never stopped, and now it was joined by the descent of the helicopter. The gunner lounged behind the machine gun at the open cargo doors, just in case. I could feel the tension of the men beside me as we all stared straight ahead clutching our M-16's, getting ready for the drop. I was hoping this would be quick. Then amid the rumble and vibrations of the engines I heard a sound like a hammer rapidly striking metal. “We’re taking fire,” someone yelled. The gunner sprayed some bullets into the trees below. Oh shit, I thought. The Huey continued its approach as the pilot expertly lowered us into the LZ. This is a

carnival ride isn’t it? In a moment it would bounce to a stop on its hydraulic brakes, and I would nod at the carny as he helps my girlfriend out of the little wooden car, and then we’ll stroll on over to the Ferris wheel and... Top Dawg was ordering us out of the helicopter as the men ahead of me jumped to the ground. I was trying to judge the distance to make sure I didn’t break anything on the way down. I wasn’t very good at this stuff, a fact the Drill Sergeant had never let me forget in Basic. I hesitated a moment behind Martinez as he hopped out with manly grace. Now there’s a real soldier I thought. Then in mid-stride the real soldier exploded in a shower of blood as he was ripped apart by bullets from every angle. I felt a hand grab me by the shoulder and throw me out. I somehow made it through the clearing and dove into the elephant grass, where I rolled onto my belly with my rifle in front of me. I remember me! My picture’s on a cardboard box on Christmas morning, rat-a-tat-tat! Bullets whizzed through the air just over my head. The Huey was making its ascent. Would you like to fly in my beautiful...? Soon the air was quiet, but interrupted by gunfire and mortar explosions. I held my rifle about a foot over my head, chose a direction and fired a few rounds. Where was I supposed to go now? I heard movement in the grass and was relieved to see one of my fellow grunts. Even happier to see the black face of Private Thomas C. Howell, III – the King of Chicago. I liked Tommy, nothing ever seemed to bother the man. “Tommy! Over here,” I hissed. He crawled over to me. “This place wasn’t supposed to be hot.” “Not hot my ass,” he said. “Where the hell is everyone else?” I asked. “I don’t know. I saw Linden and Showalter over there,” he indicated a direction with his rifle. “Let’s go.” He crouched to a run and had not taken three steps before a grenade exploded in mid-air next to him. I rolled the other way and somehow the shrapnel missed me. For a brief moment I saw the King of Chicago a few feet over me, against the blue sky. He wheeled through the air as a thick spray of blood hit my face. I belly-crawled over to the heap of bloody army fatigues. Christ, now what? Tommy was

on his side facing away from me. I could see that his right leg was missing from the hip, and his blood spurted into the grass. I couldn’t even see a place to tie a tourniquet. I rolled Tommy over on his back, and he looked into my eyes. “You took a hit,” I said, stating the obvious. I pulled out his poncho to try to stop the flow of blood. He watched me silently with grit teeth. He had very nice teeth, I had never really noticed that before. I squashed the cloth onto the gaping hole at his hip as he moaned, and then sucked in air. “You’ll be OK, there’s just a little bleeding down there.” We needed a medic. We waited in the elephant grass for the Huey to come back and pick us up. What were they waiting for? Tommy was going into shock and his lips were turning blue, I didn’t think he could hold out for long. “Hang in there, GI Joe.” I wondered why I had been the lucky one. Martinez had taken all of those bullets, probably the only reason I made it through the clearing. Then Tommy took the grenade. I scanned the sky looking for the chopper. Hurry up and get us out of here, damn it. Finally I heard the helicopter returning to pick us up. The gunner was firing all the way to the ground. I stood up and began to wave and call out for help. “Man down!” I cried. The gunner and the medic jumped out of the Huey. The medic quickly looked for vitals in the bodies in the clearing as bullets whizzed around. The gunner ran over to me and looked briefly at Tommy. He bent down and picked something up out of the grass. Then he tossed it to me. I caught Tommy’s leg. It was almost perfect, bent at the knee in a running position. Good ol’ Tommy had run all over Chicago on that leg. As I cradled it in my arms, I flashed back to that little black and white photo of me and my machine gun, but now it was a severed human limb in my lap as I said cheese for the camera. The gunner grabbed Tommy by the belt and hoisted him onto his back, blood trailing to the ground. I followed them to the chopper, where the gunner slid Tommy onto the cargo deck. “Get in, take care of your buddy.” I obeyed and tried to get him into some sort of dignified position. I slipped a wadded up flak jacket under his head for a pillow, and then decided to cradle his head in my lap. What the hell? The Huey was quickly loaded with the four surviving grunts, along with the dead bodies and parts of the others. I recognized one of Martinez’ hands, bent as though it were still clutching

a rifle. Tommy was the only wounded survivor and the medic turned his attention to us. He peeled away my rag and began dressing the wound. I watched in silence as he expertly cut away cloth and examined the wounded area and checked the condition of the body. I thought back on that time Tony and Mark had gotten into that fight, how the paramedic had behaved the same way. Tommy’s face was looking into mine, and for a brief moment I flashed on Bones as he too had looked at me when he died. “Can you hold this?” The medic pushed my hand down over an enormous wad of gauze on the wound. Then he looked at me for the first time. “How are you doing?” he asked. I shrugged, then rode back to camp as the King of Chicago died in my lap.