Casting Alpha

Suddenly, there were two explosions on both the port and starboard sides of the lead amtrac. Several grunts were blown off the trac into the water. I redirected my thoughts to the village, but saw no enemy movement, only the child seated on the beach. My first thoughts were of mortars as plumes of water rose into the air. The lead trac stopped and several grunts helped the wounded men to the side of the trac then back on board. Then the column began moving forward again. That’s when the proverbial shit hit the fan. Tuyet Diem #1 suddenly came alive with small-weapons fire, all of it directed toward the convoy. Bullets were striking the water the gunners walking them across the water to their intended targets. A bullet struck a periscope situated around the crew chief’s hatch. I quickly moved my hand away from it. Two inches higher and the bullet would have passed through my hand then hit the sergeant that had taken Gerald’s place, but the thick glass in the periscope stopped it. It was as if the enemy was invisible. Every amtrac was taking fire subsequently returning fire. It is truly amazing how much firepower a platoon of Marines can deploy. One grunt on two-nine was firing his M-79 grenade launcher as fast as he could load the weapon, pull the trigger, reload, and fire again. He was experienced and his shots were hitting their target, striking huts resulting in fires. The entire village was ablaze in moments. Another grunt was blazing away with an M-60 machine gun, red tracer rounds penetrating the walls of the village huts then disappearing into the trees behind them.

The child was still sitting on the beach in front of the burning village. During the entire firefight he had not made an attempt to flee nor was there an attempt by Marines to kill the child. Killing the child would have been simple, but it wasn’t the mission of Marines to purposely kill or injure innocent children.

The column kept moving forward. It would be a miracle if someone were not killed. The enemy had pulled another one of its dirty tricks by placing the child on the beach between us. They wanted to see if we would return fire, wanted to see what we were made of. I gritted my teeth as the sound of bullets zipped between us, the ones sitting on top of two-nine. I could only imagine what was going through the child’s mind.

As we made it to the mouth of the river, I turned one final time to see the child still seated on the beach. Amazingly, he did not appear to have been injured. Gerald drove straight into the sea. We moved farther out into blue-green water and I turned to see the sky behind us filled with smoke.

The immediate area was given a wide berth and later the column came ashore on shit beach. Now it was time to check our wounded. I heard cries for a corpsman. There was one with us and at the moment he was busier than a one-legged man in a butt-kicking contest. Several men had been wounded by shrapnel from what some said had been RPG rounds. I had my own ideas about the two explosions, but what caused them wasn’t important at the moment. None of the men’s wounds threatened their lives.

I walked around the exterior of two-nine checking to see how many bullets had found their mark and found several lead splatters where bullets had exploded on impact with the hull and, as always, several track pins needed replacing. It was obvious that we had come very close to disaster almost losing the starboard track in the river, but that didn’t matter now. We were away from the village and temporarily out of immediate danger.

ARVN soldiers began moving out of the jungle toward our position carrying a fishing net stretched over a pole. Inside the net was a man. The net was placed on the ground and the grunts began to untangle his arms and legs as I walked to their location. A small crowd of trac-rats had gathered, curious about what was happening. The old man, a probable VC wounded during the firefight in the village, had what appeared to be ten or more bullet holes in his body. The holes were clearly visible but he wasn’t bleeding. He sat in the sand curiously looking up at the crowd that had gathered around him. He showed little pain and I wondered if he had been drugged.

An ARVN interpreter emerged from the boonies and immediately began questioning the old man, shouting at him in Vietnamese. Two ARVN soldiers stood him upright. His wounds were more clearly visible and there was no doubt he was gravely injured.

He began answering the interpreter’s questions, but apparently his answers were insufficient. I knew what was coming next. I had seen this interpreter work before. He drew his revolver and put the barrel of the weapon in the old man's mouth then began asking questions again. When the old man hesitated, the interpreter pulled the trigger. The gun snapped when the hammer fell on an empty chamber and the old man wilted, but was quickly straightened up, the questioning continuing. Each time a question was answered to the interpreter’s dissatisfaction the revolver was again placed in the old man's mouth and again I heard a snap. The old man fell to his knees. The interpreter looked down at him and began laughing. Finally, the torment ceased, the interpreter getting the information he wanted. Subsequently, the man was dragged back into the surrounding jungle. I heard one shot. The show was over.