Gunner's Wings

The Green Beret major motions us over to an area away from the chopper.  He points to a ditch where three Viet Cong prisoners sit crossed-legged in the mud.  “Those men have to be flown out, now!  I don’t have the manpower to guard them if the Cong hit us again.”

Mark, the gunship pilot says, “Sir, I can’t do it.  I’m sorry.”

We walk to the edge of the ditch as Mark continues to protest.  “We just can’t do it, Major.  Maybe on our return flight from Cam Lo we can pick them up, but I can’t help you right now.”

“Goddamn it, Captain.  I’m giving you an order!”

Mark looks at me then turns to the Major, taking him by the arm and leads him a short distance away.  I see they are in heated discussion.

I see the wet and muddy prisoners, the tallest one, dressed in black pants and black shirt is calm and coo.  The other two wear black shorts and seem to be frightened.  Two South Vietnamese Marines, stand at each end of the ditch guard over them.

I hear our approaching flight of choppers and look back to see Mark and the major are going at it tooth and nail.  This pisses me off.  Hell!  We’re on a mission and don’t have time to screw around.  I look again at the three Cong.

The tall prisoner smiles and I see the mud between his teeth. “Cigarette?”  He holds out his hand.  I know they are a mortar team like the one that killed my little Missy.  I hear ringing in my ears as I bend and lay my flight helmet on the ground.  The approaching choppers are louder now and they echo in my head.  I’m conscious of taking out my half pack of smokes and throwing them at the prisoner’s feet.  He smiles again, gets to his knees and reaches for the cigarettes.

My M-60 explodes into life!  In slow motion I see my first tracer hit him in the left eye and disintegrating the back of his head, sending skull fragments and gray matter onto the red clay mound behind him.  My next tracer catches him mid-chest, and the four rounds between the tracers tear at his neck.  Only part of the muscle tissue on the right side holds his head to his body.

The force of the impact knocks him back against the red clay mound and his head falls to the right side.  With each heartbeat the arteries squirt long streams of blood.  He jerks once, and slides to the bottom of the ditch and folds up like a wet dishrag.

I never let the pressure off the trigger as I turn the M-60 on the other two.  They sit wide-eyed as the screaming, mad hornets from my weapon tear into their bodies.  They slide to the bottom of the ditch beside their dead comrade.

I scream, “Missy!  That’s for you, baby girl!  THAT’S FOR YOU!”

The bitter taste of adrenalin fills my mouth as my machinegun falls silent.  The two Vietnamese guards have disappeared.  All that’s left are their helmets and weapons.

Mark and the Major run to me. “My God, Manly,” Mark shouts, “what the hell happened?”

The major stares at the mangled bodies.  “What in the hell’s wrong with you, Sergeant?”

“They tried to escape.”  I say.

The two guards have returned but they let their weapons lie.  The major speaks in Vietnamese to them.  They nod their heads in answer, never taking their eyes off me and my smoking M-60.  “They say he is telling the truth, Captain.”

“I’m damn glad to hear that.  May we go now, Major?”

He nods.

Mark picks up my flight helmet and hands it to me.  “Come on Manly, let’s get the hell out of here.”

We walk toward Triple-6.  Mark yells above the sound of the choppers, “Why did you do that?”

“I didn’t like the way that major was hollering at you, so I eliminated the problem!”

“Blake, I’m worried about you.  Who do you think you are, everyone’s avenging angel?

“I don’t know,” I say, “maybe so, Sir.”

We’re at the chopper now and without another word we climb into our seats.  The flight of Cobras has set up an orbit around the outpost waiting for us to get airborne.