LZ Sue
The chopper circled the saddle shaped hill
and made its gentle gliding approach. Several troops were standing nearby
the
pad as we touched down and began to off load. When we jumped from the bird we
came to understand that these troops
were waiting to be ferried off the LZ; we
were their replacements…FNG’s. They
looked tired, dirty; old for young men and
each had a distant gaze in his eyes
that seemed to look through us. One grunt looked our way and uttered softly, but
resolutely
as he passed us, “Don’t lose this fuckin’ hill. A lot of good people
died getting it.”
Don’t lose this fuckin’ hill…a lot of good people died
getting it.
That firm command has remained with me all
these years. It was his severe demeanor and exhausted intensity that
gave those
words impact. Although not yet fully battle tested, we had already experienced
the grim results of war and
understood his demand of us. There was no room for
compromise. Men had been killed to claim this barren
hill.
And so the baton was passed. But there was no
dramatic orchestration to add melancholy emphasis to his words.
No heroic
dialog. No proud and triumphant cheering. No polished military salute and snappy
patriotic response. Just our
bewildered stares and speechless thoughts greeted
these weary veterans as they on loaded and floated away. Their
presence was a
profound warning. It was yet another reminder that we were not out here to camp.
We were the next to last group to be dropped onto the LZ and Miller and I
were the only medics on the hill. It was
late in the day and the sun would be
setting soon. We scrounged some C-Rations and found a quiet spot near the
perimeter.
We were high above a valley that swooped gently towards the deep purple
mountains. A lazy river wound its way through
trees, past the rice paddies and
open fields. It was a beautiful site in the fading daylight. Miller and I
gathered up scrap wood
pieces and built a small fire to warm our C’s. We were
about five feet from the wire, talking low, enjoying the view, and eating
our
dinner.
Platoon SGT Williams walked up to us with a casual “Howdy boys, how’s it
going?” We looked up at him, smiled; nodded
and said things were fine. Nodding towards our little fire, he calmly
said, “That’s really not a good idea…”, and looking past us
and the wire he
continued …“Charlie is out there.”
Shit! What the hell were we thinking!? Once again we were lulled into the
campout frame of mind, and once again PSGT
Williams was our mentor. We quickly
put the fire out and headed for the center of the hill where the safety of
numbers seemed
more acceptable and appropriate, and far enough from the truth of
the wire.
The sun had set and it was nearly dark. We chose
to crawl under the communications trailer for the night, perceiving it to
be a
safe place. In the waning light, our duffle bags passing as pillows and our
M-16’s by our side, we struggled with the
Vietnam
reality.
It was early January. Welcome to
Vietnam,
boys.
When the last soldier falls in the very last war,
Pray to God that
there'll be no more dying.
As the fires of hell fade in the very last
parade,
thank God there will be no more crying.
~ Rich Raitano
