When I joined the 101st as a replacement Captain, I was sent to the Screaming Eagle Replacement Training Center (SERTS) for a programmed week of prep before being assigned to a specific unit. On the first day, the Brigade S1 raced up in a Jeep and told me to load my duffle bag and get in the truck. I was replacing part of a company command group that had been killed on the edge of the A Shau. Training was over.
Later in the day, uncomfortably wearing brand new jungle fatigues, clean kit, and shined jungle boots, I boarded a UH1H for the melancholy trip to my new unit. I had no idea what to expect and no real information to prepare mentally, other than the obvious. A lot of my company was dead, more were wounded, and the remaining required leadership. The Infantry School doesn’t teach much about this.
Into The Fray
The helicopter began to reduce its speed and orbited east of a rugged green mountain mass. As it lowered altitude, I could begin to make out a small smoking scar against a ridgeline. It was more open than the rest of the land and showed the red laterite dirt on its edges, much like a bleeding wound. Slowly, a wisp of purple smoke arose in a steady column unmoved by a breath of wind. Even in a moving helicopter, the heat and humidity were palpable. The bird turned toward the smoke and the scar was hidden from view. I was immersed in my final anxieties and questions as the pilot pulled power and did a vertical descent into the center of the smoke.
Abruptly, the vast blue mist vista changed into the immediacy of trees, dirt, smoke and noise within feet of my face. The door gunner pointed at the ground, several feet below, visible through a tangle of chips, wood, logs and swirling material. He motioned me to get out. I tossed my ruck and followed it, beaten to the dirt by the downward blast and exhaust of the retreating helicopter. Nothing was visible, except the dirt in front of my helmet lip, which had now been pressed over my nose by the physics of the moment. I arose to the sounds of what seemed like utter silence, stood, and looked around.
Aftermath
Few people will ever experience, nor should they, the immediate aftermath of close, continuous, primordial combat. If observed by a detached eye – and there never are any – the first impression is one of junk, the awful and varied detritus of a battlefield. The residue of hell in a small place. To the participant, it is the overwhelming and welcoming sounds of silence – a sound just recently achieved that signifies that you somehow remain among the living.
The overall impression is destruction. The ground is littered with a snowflake mass of chipped leaves, branches, and wood parts – fresh and bleeding their sap of life. The dirt is very fresh, overturned and refined with forces that not even a plow could muster. It is pungent with organic decay and chewed to fine material separated by larger clods of muddy confluence. On top, lay larger logs and branches, the remains of once vertical trees. They are in random patterns, as part of a failed giant jackstraw game. Piercing through, are the remaining stumps of the original growth with supplicating shards of irregular height exposing the still oozing cambium, bark and core red inner hearts.
The Perimeter
In random parts of the perimeter, smoke rises from still heated and glowing organic matter – triggered by a random tracer round, grenade blast, or artillery round that found a welcoming dry piece of life to extend its effect. The smell of cordite, the remainder of a myriad of ordnance devices, acrid and pungent, still lingers in the atmosphere. Its blast was imbedded in the fresh dirt and is now slowly extricating itself, joining the tendrils of liquid heat and rising with the new unnatural exposure to sunlight.
On the edge of the perimeter, where vertical growth meets sunlight, combinations of debris and battle clues emerge. The sunlight reflects a number of unexploded cluster bomb units (CBU) hanging in the edge growth – the tennis ball sized yellow belly under the four spring-loaded shiny silver wings on top. Another area has a dark Stain throughout its canopy, narrow at the perimeter and wider within the forest. This is the impact point of a napalm canister, barely effective against the deep wet of the jungle. A portion of the blackened husk of the shiny aluminum body sits, caught in a tree. A beam of sunlight reveals its presence. The jungle will soon reclaim all of these stains of war.
Just beyond the first stand of trees are craters, scattered along the perimeter. The newly turned earth, at the edges of the craters, are coated with a small but clear ring of grey cordite. This is the mark caused by a moment of intense heat and residual shrapnel that did not escape. Some contain a remaining empty smoke canister. In several others, the bodies of the recent enemy lie in confused heaps. To be buried when the victors regain sufficient strength. Flies already festoon the corpses and provide the only sound in an otherwise silent scene.
Pieces of Humanity
As the eyes accustom to the light, pieces of humanity begin to register. An arm reaching into the sun. Portions of two Soldiers expose themselves on the edge of the perimeter. One man standing, another sitting on a log, smoking. Images of people begin to gather where dappled spots of light and movement merge from the dark. The perimeter is small, much smaller than it was originally.
I see a large pile of expended machine gun links and, just beside it, is a much larger pile. The shape and distribution of the piles indicates an even sweep of the weapon to the extreme left and right. It was a very busy position. Both the weapon and its crew are absent.
Further inside the center of the position, is a rumpled pile of rain ponchos, clothing, and boots. The stain of blood and tar-like residue coats many of the ponchos and clothes. Close by, and hanging on branches, are the empty bags of Ringers 5%, the medic’s immediate solution, scattered stained bandages, some white with bright red and others turned to the green camouflage back side. These are the vestiges of the aid station, so small and unprotected.
In the center, scattered throughout the destroyed vegetation, are several dozen empty smoke canisters, ammo boxes, aid packets, overturned water cans and empty magazines. Interspersed among it all are small collections of empty brass and radio batteries, reminders of where Soldiers had been at work. Next to a large log, there are the remains of two military radios, the aluminum skin punctured, exposing the blasted innards. This was the Command Post, less than 20 yards from the present perimeter. All the training and preparation the Army invested in this venture had coalesced into this random and undisciplined scattering of war.
The Motionless
Finally, vision and senses begin to fix on the animated forms of life that emerge in the mind’s eye. They are very quiet and almost motionless. The normal physicality, emotion, and energy of teenagers has dulled to stillness by recent events. They stare straight ahead and slowly pull on cigarettes, holding the smoke deep inside and then ever so slowly releasing it in a small continuous column from nose and mouth. They hesitate a moment and then repeat the process.
Their skin is cloaked with dirt, ash, and other residue. Sweat makes small channels through the mud and drips onto their fatigues. The cigarette is soaked where it meets the finger. It only stays aflame due to the constant stoking of its core. They are well-beyond tired, physically and emotionally. Their fingernails are almost universally pared down to the quick, reflecting hours of continuous nervous biting, rubbing, and wear. There is no need for manicures in this environment.
Some slowly labor over an open can of C rations, ingesting but not tasting. Grease and liquid coat fingers and the edge of the mouth, but remain unfelt and unwiped. They clean the white plastic C ration spoon with a swipe of their tongues and return it to a jacket pocket. It is dirty, but still needed. Here, Maslow’s hierarchy of needs remains at a very basic level.
The eyes are mostly wide open, showing a lot of white but with a red overhatching film. This is emotional conjunctivitis, brought on by what the eye saw and sensed over an extended period of time. This is what remains.
The Silence
Once I regained my senses I noticed something else, the silence. There are no birds to hear. They fled some time ago. There are almost no voices. The paired Soldiers say nothing or whisper to themselves. They are too tired to extend a sound beyond that which is immediately necessary. The Soldiers momentarily relish the freedom from sound. It’s now time to pick up where Ft Benning left off, become the father of the family and move on to what may be the next junk pile. “This is Musty Races Six, on the ground.” The silence is broken.
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