The Empty Warrior (6 page)

And it would only get worse as his people died at younger and younger ages. Tomorrow’s children would be deprived of their parents at an even earlier age than today’s youth; and with those parents, knowledge; knowledge that could not be replaced; would also be taken to the grave. And as their progeny created their own lineage, future generations would be condemned to increasingly shorter and more arduous existences than those who had come before. In fifty generations the descendants of the colony would be lucky if they were able to read what had been left behind, much less write their own stories. In a hundred lifetimes they would be little more than animals. If in the end mankind somehow survived on this misbegotten world, what would humanity look like in a thousand generations? What bitter fruit, the old man wondered darkly, would this shriveling and neglected branch of the human race ultimately put forth.

CHAPTER THREE:

And All the Children Go Insane

1969 A.D.

“Lieutenant?” The word was a whisper so soft that it floated through the night like an evanescent wisp of smoke. It flowed gently past O’Keefe’s dormant consciousness, and then dissipated into nothingness. The request had been barely audible over the raindrops that struck his poncho, and he was glad that it was gone now, for even as he drowsed his mind recognized the burdens implicit in the title and the rank, and wanted nothing of them. Only rest was important now. “Lieutenant!” This time the whisper was harsher, and shot from the gloom like a sniper’s round. Lieutenant Achilles Aeneas O’Keefe, United States Marine Corps, snapped to full alertness, abandoning the semi-conscious state that passed for sleep in the bush.

“What is it?” he hissed. He had only been awake for two seconds and already he was aggravated. A small pool of collected rain water had poured from his poncho on to one of the few still dry sections of his uniform when he had twitched upon waking. The implication of the draining water also made him suddenly cognizant of the increased intensity of the rain. When he had drifted off it had been merely a misty drizzle; now it drummed steadily on the plastic hood that surrounded his helmet.

Baker, the platoon RTO; his high, Harlem-accented voice modulating an octave above its usual pitch and betraying a hint of unease; replied only loud enough to be heard over the rain. “It’s the LP, sir. Teejay’s got something.”

“Shit,” O’Keefe breathed. “Gimme!” He slid against the muddy side of the fighting hole until he could feel Baker next to him. The RTO dutifully found his proffered hand, pressing the handset into his palm. O’Keefe pushed his helmet up a notch to put the receiver to his ear, grimacing as more water found its way beneath his poncho.

“This is Six. What’s up, Teejay? Over.” He whispered softly into the microphone, making an effort to project a confidence he did not really feel but that he knew was a prerequisite for command.

Teejay’s anxious voice came back, barely audible over the electronic hum of the radio. “Charlie’s in the treeline, sir. We got boocoo noise out here. Sounds like they’re settin’ up some heavy shit, sir; and it sounds like a lot of ‘em. Sounds like a whole regiment in there. No shit, sir, I think we’re looking at a real number ten. Over.”

O’Keefe did his best to supply a measured response. “Okay, you and Thor get back here di di mau, but be careful and do it quietly. Stick to your route, and remember there’s Claymores close in. So don’t scare anybody; let us know before you come through the perimeter. Over.”

The voice that came back sounded steadier now and shaded with gratitude. “You don’t hafta tell me twice—I mean, affirmative; sir. Out.”

O’Keefe turned his head in Baker’s direction. “Get me the FB. Then find the sarge. Tell him to get everybody locked and loaded and then get your ass back here. And don’t forget to tell ‘em about the LP.” With that he rolled over on his belly and pushed himself up far enough to peer out over the edge of the fighting hole. There was nothing to see save a wall of darkness. A tiger could have been crouching a few yards away, its muscles tensing to spring at his face, and he would have never known. And he damn sure couldn’t see the treeline.

His other senses were equally as useless. The only sound that reached his ears besides the rain was Baker’s muffled voice attempting to raise the firebase. Inhaling deeply through his nose, he sampled the air for any scent but found only the ubiquitous odor of rotting vegetation that permeated the landscape throughout the rainy season. Not that he had ever smelled a VC. As far as he could tell they smelled like the jungle. He only tried because of the stories he’d heard, stories of Charlie being able to find Americans on even the darkest nights just by their foreign odor. He had no idea if it were true or not, but somehow the VC always seemed to know just where the Marines had dug in.

It’s just like everything else in this damned country
, O’Keefe thought,
you never know anything for sure
. Nothing he had ever been taught, in the military or elsewhere, had prepared him for Vietnam. He had no idea what to believe any more. Most of the supposed truths he had accepted all his life came to naught out here, while brutality he would never have thought existed even in the deepest, darkest corners of men’s souls bubbled to the surface on a near daily basis.

As far as he could tell there were only about three things you could really count on out in the bush. One was that every non-American couldn’t care less if you lived or died; another was that the only people you could trust implicitly were members of your own platoon, not counting any FNGs; and lastly, that Charlie didn’t play. That was the one undeniable truth of the war; the Viet Cong were worthy adversaries.

Sometimes as he lay in his fighting hole at night he wondered how their commanders did it. How could you motivate men in their circumstances? They were stuck out here in this godforsaken shithole year round. A good night for them was any night they didn’t have to attack the Americans; it was a night stuck in a wet, dimly lit tunnel with only a cold bowl of rice for food. They had minimal supplies, virtually no supporting arms, and were facing an enemy with what must have seemed to them like unlimited, staggering firepower. Yet still they fought like hellhounds on steroids. As much as he hated the little bastards, O’Keefe could not help but feel admiration for their fortitude and their courage.

Baker nudged him in the ribs and O’Keefe rolled over onto his back and slid down into the hole, shoulder to shoulder with the radioman. Baker pushed the handset into O’Keefe’s chest, holding it there until the lieutenant took it from him. “I got Arty, sir,” he murmured. “Be right back.” With that he abandoned the radio and slithered through the muck and out of the hole.

O’Keefe pulled out his map and hunched over it, attempting to keep any stray beams from his small flashlight from escaping the confines of his poncho. There was no need to give the VC an aiming point. When at last he was situated, he spoke. “This is Delta Six, over.”

Big Joe Holland’s voice suddenly erupted from the handset, too loudly it seemed. “Hey Flakman, is that you? Over.” He used the appellation the other officers had derived from O’Keefe’s first and middle initials. O’Keefe flinched, angry and ready to berate the big man, but thought better of it.
Don’t lose it, Hill
, he told himself.
The handset is right in your ear. If you couldn’t hear the VC packing in their shit, they damn sure can’t hear a voice on the radio through your head in a foxhole in the pouring rain. Nobody’s that good.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he replied as loudly as he dared. “I got a feeling we’re gonna need your guns in a big way tonight, man. My LP tells me we got boocoo VC in the treeline in front of us. Over.”

“No sweat,” came the confident reply. “You coordinate, we obliterate. Plus, we’re having a pretty quiet night. I guess the gooners don’t like the rain any more than we do. You want we start off with some illum? Over.”

Big Joe spoke in a brash, fearless manner; and it was not an attitude fostered by spending his time inside the concertina wire that surrounded the firebase. O’Keefe had seen him, more than once, out on the perimeter during an enemy attack pumping out rounds like a bushrat. The burly lieutenant had been an offensive lineman in college; to him protecting his big howitzers was little different than protecting his quarterback. It was part of his job, and he did it to the best of his ability and without hesitation.

“No, definitely not,” O’Keefe answered. “My LP isn’t back yet. I don’t want to light ‘em up out there. Just give me a Willie Peter at, um,” he hastily rechecked the coordinates, “147820 North, 1081456 East. Over.” Encryption was needless; Charlie clearly already knew the Marines were there.

No sooner had O’Keefe spoken than he heard the thoomp, thoomp, thoomp of enemy mortars. “Incoming!” he yelled instinctively, no longer concerned with quiet. The last syllable hadn’t died in his throat before Baker landed heavily in the fighting hole beside him.

“Shit,” the RTO grunted loudly, “I don’t think the sarge got to everybody, but I bet they’re ready to rock and roll now!” Both men rolled into balls at the bottom of the hole, waiting for the shells to impact. A few, seemingly never-ending seconds later, the explosions erupted far to their rear.
Well Charlie
, O’Keefe thought,
you don’t quite know exactly where we are, do you?
The VC’s ignorance wouldn’t last long. He was already aware of bursts from M-16s close by and AK fire coming from the direction of the tree line.

“On the way,” Holland’s voice said from the handset. Time crawled as O’Keefe waited. The mortars fired again. He held the handset tightly to his ear as he hugged the muddy bottom of the fighting hole. At last Holland’s voice was again in his ear with just two words; “Splash! Over.”

O’Keefe started counting down from ten. At eight the exploding mortar shells shook the ground beneath him, off to the right but much closer now. At five O’Keefe started to push his way up the edge of the hole, still holding the handset. At three he stuck his head out over the top. At one the white phosphorous round impacted, right on time. It was about fifty yards short of the treeline and some seventy to eighty yards to the left of where O’Keefe had seen muzzle flashes from VC small arms. An instant after it landed he ducked back into the hole to protect his night vision, and his head.

He spat words into the handset as fast as he could without being misunderstood. “Azimuth seventy-five right, elevation plus fifty. Fire for effect! Over!” He could no longer hear the launching mortars over the cacophony of small arms fire, but he knew that the third salvo was on its way or soon would be.

Holland’s voice again spoke from the handset, repeating “Splash! Over.” O’Keefe held his helmet tightly to his head as he counted down the seconds. At two he peered up over the edge of the fighting hole and watched as the first rounds impacted directly in the midst of the treeline, just to the left of where the VC were dug in. In the garish light of the explosions great gouts of earth, splinters of trees, and parts of whatever or whoever happened to be in there were hurled into the air where each of the hundred and five millimeter rounds exploded.

O’Keefe yelled back to Holland, “You’re right on top of ’em. Walk ’em to the right and they’re all toast. Over.” Seconds later he watched as the explosions did exactly that, marching down the treeline to the right and destroying everything in their path.

Baker, forgetting himself, slapped O’Keefe on the back. “Good shootin’ Lieutenant,” he yelled in O’Keefe’s face; his own damp countenance lit preternaturally by the flashes of the explosions. Then into the night and the rain he screamed, “Get some, Arty. Get some!”

The mortars were silenced, as was the small arms fire. His own men fired sporadically but that too slowly tailed off as the sarge calmed them down. Holland’s howitzers were still firing at O’Keefe’s behest, now walking back down to the left through the tree line; destroying, hopefully, anything they might have missed with their first salvos. O’Keefe handed the handset back to Baker.

“Where’s the sarge? You know?” he yelled over the booming detonations.

“He was over by Handjob’s hole last I saw him. But that was before the gooners lit us up. He could be anywhere now.” Baker shrugged in the darkness.

“Okay,” O’Keefe nearly screamed, “I’m gonna go find him. You stay put and tell Big Joe to keep layin’ it on ’em.”

He scrambled over the edge of the fighting hole and half ran, half crawled toward the spot where he remembered Handjob to be dug in. Flashes of shellfire gave him a glimpse of the hole through the rain. He dropped to his belly at the edge of the Marine’s excavation. “Handjob,” he spat into the darkness, “you seen the sarge?”

Gunnery Sergeant Robert G. Wilson, his voice as deep and hard as quarried stone, answered for the private. “Here, sir. You better get down here too, with all the shit kicking up out there.” Before O’Keefe could respond he felt the strong hands of the sergeant grab his flak jacket through his poncho and pull him head first into the hole. He struggled to right himself until Wilson got him by the chest and pushed him upright against the muddy wall. “It’s a lot safer down here, sir,” Wilson said in a patronizing tone that clearly demonstrated the old fighter’s concern for his lieutenant. O’Keefe felt a wave of fraternal affection for the gruff, older man pour into his psyche. He leaned toward him, and with his arm wrapped around the sergeant’s helmet, pulled his head close to his own.

“Everybody okay?” O’Keefe asked, his mouth next to the man’s ear.