"Hey!" I called. "Where's that fire coming from?"
He pointed to my right front and said, "In the woods over there about 200
meters. There's a machine gun."
Covering Fire
"Okay!" I called back. "You guys let me know when you're ready to come
out. I'll put down covering fire. Come right through here."
"Right!" he called back.
I stood up, exposed, a little way into the woods. It was the only way I
could fire over their heads when they came through. My right hand trembled
as I picked four magazines out of the ammo pouch and laid them on the
ground for quick access.
I hoped "tiger suit" had given me the right location on that machine gun.
If I gave my position away by firing at the wrong place, the MG could cut
me in half.
The guys we had passed earlier were out of sight in the woods. I didn't
want to leave for fear the men in the crater would make their break, so I
turned and shouted, "Hey! We've gotta put down covering fire for these
guys. When I open fire, you fire on that wood line over there."
No reply. I yelled again and turned back to the crater.
The big guy was standing there, still
smoking his cigarette.
"Hey!" I called. "You
guys about
ready?"
"Just a minute," he called back. He took a deep drag, flipped it away,
exhaled slowly and called back, "Okay."
I brought my M16 down on where the machine gun was supposed to be and
bellowed, "Fire!," squeezing the trigger. The weapon emptied in four fast
bursts. I punched the magazine release and almost beat the magazine to the
ground, scooping up another. The herd of camouflaged troopers was halfway
to the bank. I opened up again.
Those in the lead wavered for a split second when I fired. Without taking
my finger off the trigger I called, "C'mon, goddamnit! I'm firing over
your heads!"
The first ones broke into the shade and scrambled up the bank, almost
knocking me over. I stepped back, reaching for another magazine. As the
men came through, they headed back into the bank for cover, clearing the
way for those behind. Finally only two were left expos-ed.
"Let's go!" I ordered.
"Sir, I'm too weak to make it. You've got to pull me up." It was the
clean-cut kid with the redhead right behind him.
"I'll push him," the redhead told me.
Oh Christ! I thought, if I quit firing . . . the machine gun . . . Awwwww!
I reached down, grabbed his arm and pulled. He didn't budge. The
red-haired guy was pushing. It was almost a straight pull up and the kid
wasn't moving. "Need some help over here!" I called.
Mortarmen from 91st Airborne-Ranger Battalion break for lunch.
My rifle was at my feet and the kid wasn't moving. Four bullets hit all around us in regular sequence. Machine-gun rounds. I heard nothing. I wanted out but I couldn't leave them like that. Then I heard the second burst, saw more rounds hit and something went splat hard against my right forearm.
Spurting Blood
I looked down at a huge blue-black hole in my arm, spurting blood like the
needle spray in a shower.
"Holy shit!" I cried, realizing two things at once: A. I couldn't pull
them up now and B. I was dying.
I grabbed the wound and ran back to-ward the medics. A branch knocked my
hat off. I yelled, "Medic! Medic!" and barrelled into Lt. Linh's
sanctuary, still yelling.
I saw an older-looking GI and a couple of others, younger.
"Need a tourniquet, fast!" I said.
"Uh huh," said the older guy, nodding. He tightened a rifle sling around
my upper arm.
"It needs to go higher," I said.
He shook his sandy-haired head calmly. "This is where it goes. I know
about these things." That was my introduction to Doc Taylor, one of the
best medics in Special Forces. He saved my life. He saved a lot of lives
that day.
Meder appeared and bandaged the wound, tearing the plastic wrapper off an
ace bandage with his teeth, while holding gauze pads over the wound.
"We're gonna put this tourniquet on real loose," Doc said, "and try to
hold the bleeding with pressure. It looks like it'll be awhile before we
can get you out of here."
"L-listen," I said, shaking, "I was try-ing to haul two guys over that
bank when I got hit. They're both wounded."
Doc looked me straight in the face. "They still there?"
"Yeah," I said, "yeah, they're still there."
He and Meder disappeared. I sat there feeling rotten for having left them.
I couldn't have helped them if I'd stayed, plus I'd have died. But I still
felt rotten.
There was no other course of action I could have taken. A man will bleed
to death in six to eight minutes from a severed artery left unattended,
but that didn't make me feel any better. I knew I couldn't have pulled
them up after I'd been hit, but that didn't help either. You always think
that when the clutch comes you'll emerge from a phone booth in a pair of
blue tights with a red towel around your neck. This was the incident that
finally got it through my head beret or no beret, we were only human.
There are
AUGUST/81
SOLDIER OF FORTUNE 23