By What is Sure to Follow Read online

  The quiet without the plane noise was almost frightening to Luke, The fact that he had just spent several numbing hours listening to the unfiltered engine noise of the huge plane had a lot to do with it, but there was more. There was no noise, Luke had expected to see massive movements of troops and supplies; he found only a nearly deserted airfield.

  After checking in with the MACV operations center, the six Marines went by truck to the area Marine HQ Operations Center. Their paperwork was entered for processing. They were told to grab lunch and to report back at 1300. That gave them a little over an hour to eat and look around.

  The view from the Marine compound was serene; it was difficult for Luke to believe that this country was at war. It seemed so peaceful and beautiful. To the north he could see several green hills (some guys called them mountains, he was sure). In front of him, Luke knew was the city of Da Nang, with its harbor cutting deeply into it. He had briefly seen it from above just before their plane landed.

  Talking with some fellahs at lunch, Luke found out that his unit, First Force Recon, was not in Da Nang. He felt let down, saddened. First Recon was working out of Phu Bai some distance to the north. Scuttlebutt had it that they would probably ride out to their unit the next day on the mail chopper.

  Promptly at 1300 they picked up their completed paperwork and set out for the supply depot. In route Luke saw a makeshift structure covering an area of 8 X10 feet just ahead. Its walls were made of cardboard and odd miss-matched boards. Rounding the corner to it’s front, Luke saw it was a photo studio, run by a native. Hanging in front of the strange structure were samples of the man’s work showing men of all branches of the service striking manly poses. Luke watched as Waldo approached the small man standing in front of it. They talked animatedly as Waldo negotiated a price with the slender Vietnamese. Waldo then walked over to Luke and Johan. His winning smile spread across his face as he said, “Wait while I get my picture taken, bros.” The smile on his face was infectious. Luke and Johan shook their heads in a mock attempt at being callous, and then looked at each other and grinned. “Hey, bro. Go for it,” they both said in unison.

  Waldo’s smile got even larger as he walked back to the small studio. He turned just before he entered the door. “Hey man, you both need a good picture to send back home. Come on.”

  After little discussion, both Luke and Waldo nodded their agreement and walked over. One at a time, each man posed in front of the small, antique-looking camera, striking the most manly poses they could muster. Luke chose a pose kind of looking over his left shoulder. He tried to look macho. All the while he couldn’t help but notice the reddish, blackened teeth of the photographer, stained dark by his constant eating of beetle nuts. Luke thought the stains made that man’s mouth look hideous.

  Next door to the photographer’s shop was the huge supply depot. Following instructions, they separated out things they would take into “Indian Country.” Their dress uniforms, steel helmets and other non-essential items would be stored at the depot until they went Stateside. They even left behind their green utility field uniforms and their leather boots–these were replaced with two sets of camouflage uniforms, complete with jungle hat and camouflage beret, and one pair of light weight jungle boots.

  “Hey, boot,” said a lazy looking supply clerk as he handed Luke his new jungle boots. “You know why we give you these new boots?”

  “Hard telling,” replied Luke. He almost made a sarcastic comment about them wanting all of them to have sore feet, but refrained. “Why?”

  “Two reasons, man. Jungle rot will eat your feet alive inside those leather boots you’re leaving here. Your feet can’t breath in them. The jungle boots you got there have two small air ports to help your feet breathe,” he said matter-of-factly. Luke looked down and. saw the two small brass colored air holes on the instep of each boot. “You know what a pongee stick is?” Luke nodded, knowing that they were sharpened sticks that the VC used in setting traps. “Well these here boots have a metal plate in the bottom of them just in case you should happen to step on one of them. These here boots might save your life, boot.”

  Luke nodded his thanks and moved on through the line, fearful if he lingered or said anything that the clerk would find something else to chide him about.

  Next, Luke signed for his new M-16 rifle and collected the other items needed in the field. His friends did the same. Things like C- rations, foot powder, malaria pills, salt tablets, Halazone tablets–used to purify water–K-Bars (survival knives) and so on all went into their rucksacks along with the gear they brought with them. Luke guessed that his pack weighed somewhere around forty pounds when he was all done. He was then issued his 782 gear: a harness/utility web belt and connecting equipment. To this harness he would hang hand grenades on the supporting straps, and canteens on the waist belt.

  One of the men working in the depot spoke to Luke. “If you’d been a month earlier, you would have been issued an M-14 rifle instead of this here new, lighter M-16 with its plastic stock.” Then he slapped the stock. It sounded like plastic to Luke. “Be careful,” the man told each of them, “the M-16s jam easily. Also watch out for certain batches of ammo that’ll cause your M-16s to jam. Something to do with the powder used in making them. Great, huh?!”

  “Out-fuckin’ standing,” said Waldo as he cradled the weapon in his arm.

  Luke simply nodded.

  Another Marine seated behind a drab steel desk said, “Be sure to use an old tooth brush on your weapons constantly to keep them clean. Any dirt can make ’em jam.” Luke again nodded his agreement. The trio continued down the supply line.

  “You have to have enough supplies to last you on your own out there for an indefinite period,” a corporal said as he piled Luke’s supply of various grenades in front of him. “We have so many choppers go down in route to the front lines that now everyone who gets in- country is fully supplied immediately,” he continued with a smug look.

  Luke promptly busied himself putting the supplies in his pack. He felt his stomach flutter as he thought about what he had just heard. Then he shrugged his powerful shoulders and began hooking grenades on his harness.

  Leaving the supply depot, the trio headed back to the photo studio. They picked up their portraits and then headed on to the barracks. After carefully cleaning his weapon, Luke decided to take the opportunity to write Sheri. He dug out his paper and pencil and sat, staring at the blank page. “What can I say?” he said out loud, mostly moving his lips. He decided to make it short and let her know he was okay and that he had made it safely to Vietnam. Once written, his words barely took half of the short page. He stared at it for a while and then signed it simply “Luke.” As an afterthought, he included one of the small, wallet-size portraits of himself. He quickly carried it to the out-going mailbox near the door of the barracks. A sign posted there read “Write ‘Vietnam Free Mail’ where the stamp should be.”

  Luke scribbled the words on the envelope and placed it in the box.

  By 1600 hours Luke was as ready as he’d ever be. He had all his gear stowed except for his weapon and munitions bandoleers, which contained numerous magazines of ammunition. Looking everything over, Luke got a good case of nerves. His mouth went dry and his shoulders tensed. “This is what I trained for,” he reminded himself. “This is it,” he further said out loud, sounding much braver than he felt.

  Waldo glanced at him and noticed the perspiration on Luke’s face. To break the spell, Waldo said, “Let’s go to the Mess Hall and grab early chow, and then let’s head to the Enlisted Club for an evening of serious drinking.”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” replied Luke. With a nod of approval from Johan, they all walked the quarter mile to a white building with a tin roof that looked more like a warehouse than a mess hall. Entering a door that said “Mess Hall,” they read another informal sign attached to the wall by the door: “Enter at your own risk.”

  “It figures, bro,” said Waldo. “Why would the food improve ove
r here anyway?” With that they all laughed, grabbed a tray and got in line. Luke looked around. Everyone he could see was relaxed, just as if they were Stateside. It seemed odd. The thought passed quickly as he looked down the line at the day’s food offerings. Steam rose from the serving line. Getting near the head of the chow line, Luke looked around the room further. In front of him were maybe thirty tables. Each would seat four per side. A few people were already eating and more were coming in as Luke and his friends worked their way through the last of the serving line past the fried chicken, beef steak, instant mashed potatoes and other foods. Luke and his friends sat at a table toward the rear. Luke had his back to the wall; from there he could see the entire room, including the entrance. It was a habit be had formed of being able to see everything in front of him and to cover his back.

  From the doorway Luke heard someone call his name, which was strange because his Recon friends always called him “Eyes” or “Sims,” not Luke Sims. Looking up, he saw a Navy man coming toward him. At first he didn’t recognize him. The military uniform and nearly four years had changed him some. It was Jim Stroud. They had been in high school auto shop together back in Riverside, California. A lifetime ago, Luke thought. They were never very good friends, Luke remembered, but you couldn’t tell it by the expression on Jim’s face. At best Luke could remember that they talked occasionally after class–he didn’t like him or dislike him back then. He was just another person at school to Luke.

  Approaching the table in long strides, Jim said, “Hi ya, Luke. Great to see ya. I didn’t know you were here. You’re the first person I’ve seen over here from back home. Say, are ya stationed here in Da Nang?” The words rushed out of him as the excitement of seeing someone from home caught hold.

  “No,” Luke replied. “We’re just passing through on our way to our unit. From the looks of it you’ve been here for a while,” said Luke looking at the worn uniform hanging on Stroud’s thin shoulders.

  “Yeah, I’ve been here eleven months already,” he said. “Most of it spent right here in Da Nang. I drive a tow truck for the Sea Bees.”

  Not knowing what to say next, afraid he might say something degrading about driving a tow truck during the war, Luke said, “I bet that’s exciting. You get to see a lot of country and other sights, don’t you?” He didn’t sound too convincing.

  Laughing, Stroud said, “You wouldn’t believe it, buddy, but driving a tow truck around here is dangerous. Before I got the job, three other drivers were sent home in body bags. They got wasted when they went out on service calls. The next day their bodies were found in a ditch–and then we were short one tow truck and whatever vehicle they went after. Pretty serious business.”

  Waldo spoke up. “Hey, bro, I guess any job can be dangerous over here.”

  “You got that right,” said Stroud, grinning from ear to ear. “Between the nightly incoming and everything else you don’t sleep too well ’round here. Hey Luke, I go on duty at 2000 hours tonight. Why don’t you go on a run or two with me? It’ll give you a chance to see some of the sights before you head out.”

  “Only if I can have a few beers before we go,” said Luke, not sure he really wanted to go. “I understand that beer is cheap over here, and I know I won’t see any more for quite a while after tonight.”

  Stroud laughed again and said, “No problem, buddy. Everybody drinks over here. Some nights I go to work half blitzed–it’s the only way to relax out here.” They made plans where to meet later and then Stroud went to another table to join some friends. Finishing their meal, Luke and his buddies left the now crowded eating hall.

  After stopping off at the barracks to see if there were any messages, they headed straight to the nearest enlisted men’s club. It was much smaller than Luke thought it would be. People were crowded into every inch of the building. They ordered a couple of beers a piece from the bar and went outside to drink them. Soon a table became available and they sat on the open air.

  A warm evening greeted them; the sky was clear and it was very humid. “I certify this is perfect beer drinking weather,” said Waldo as he tapped his first can of beer against Luke and Johan’s.

  “Amen,” they said. Waldo laughed and then began guzzling his beer. In a matter of a minute or two, each of them had finished off their first two beers, which were nice and cold, and got more from an ice chest near the Club’s side door. The price was great: fifteen cents a can.

  With each successive round of drinks, the beer got warmer and warmer. Luke remarked about it to the bartender, an Army corporal. He laughed a big gut-moving laugh, and said, “Hell, you guys drink it faster than we can chill it. It happens this way every night. In another hour we won’t even bother trying to put it on ice. We’ll still sell it as fast as you all can piss it out.”

  He wasn’t wrong, Luke noticed. As they sat at their small table working on their own beers, the crowd kept ordering more and more–straight from the warm pallets of cases being opened just outside the back door. Over the roar of voices Luke could hear heavy machinery working. On his way back from the latrine he saw its source: a forklift was busy ferreting pallets of beer up to the back of the building. “Damn. That’s a lot of fuckin’ beer,” he said as he belched loudly, then headed back to his seat. It was as if all this was happening someplace else, not in a war zone. Everyone seemed determined to get drunk, not caring that incoming might start at any minute.

  Johan and Waldo were still sitting at the table drinking beer as Luke excused himself. He walked the short distance to the barracks to get his M-16 and returned to the mess hall to await Stroud, sitting near the entrance in the lengthening shadow of the building.

  Shortly after 2000 hours, a large tow truck came to a rumbling stop in front of the Mess Hall. Luke eyed the huge truck; it was the largest tow truck Luke had ever seen–much larger than the ones Luke had seen used to tow large semi-trucks. The truck stopped in a cloud of dust, air brakes hissing. The door flew open and Jim yelled down, “Hop in, buddy.” Luke smiled and walked toward the truck.

  Climbing up into the passenger’s seat nearly twenty feet in the air, Luke felt like he was in a tank. “Hi Jim. Boy is this thing big,” said Luke, as he looked at the clutter in the filthy cab, trying to find a place to put his feet.

  “Yeah. They don’t come any bigger than this,” he smiled as he handed Luke a can of beer. “Just push that stuff to the side and make yourself comfortable.”

  “Thanks,” said Luke as he took a deep chug of his beer. He watched as Stroud, looking perfectly in control as he shifted through the countless gears, headed out into town.

  “What do you tow with this huge thing?” Luke spoke over the rumbling noise made by the big engine and the moans and groans of the big tractor working its way through the uneven streets. Luke could feel countless vibrations jarring his body as he spoke.

  “Just about anything. I tow jeeps, cars, trucks and an occasional tank. Most of the time it’s light stuff. But you never know.” Then with one hand holding the huge wheel, Jim took a long chug on his can of beer. Seemingly ignoring the road ahead completely, he maneuvered the large vehicle down the darkened road way as he conversed with Luke.

  Stroud proceeded to tell him about his job. “I’m the life-line, especially after dark. If a round-eye, as we called them–meaning an American–has car trouble after dark in the Da Nang area, he is ‘dead meat’ if he sits there very long. Now all vehicles have a two-way radio for such emergencies,” he explained, keeping his eyes on the road as he spoke.

  “My job,” said Stroud proudly, “is to get to the ‘down’ vehicle as fast as possible and tow it and its driver to safety.” It all sounded perfectly logical to Luke. He nodded and then took a drink of his beer.

  What Stroud said next blew Luke away. “Yeah. In the race to save round-eyes I’m not supposed to stop for anything or anybody– including Vietnamese men, women and children on bicycles or scooters, or dogs, chickens that happen to get in my way.

  Luke thought Strou
d was talking mostly theory so he smiled back as his friend talked. He couldn’t imagine Stroud running down innocent civilians for real. Playing along, Luke asked, “Does it bother you?”

  Stroud quickly replied. “It did at first. But after I was late getting to a stranded driver because of watching out for hitting pedestrians and I found the guy dead, I said from then on it was them against us–and Americans come first!

  “Besides I never hit Vietnamese. I only hit Viet Cong,” said Stroud with a sneer.

  “How do you know the difference?”

  “”It’s easy. Vietnamese get out of your way. V. C. don’t,” laughed Stroud as he took another drink of beer.

  Luke had no reply. He took a drink of his beer, and looked out the window of the truck as it moved past huts along their route. They drove the last short distance to Stroud’s work compound in silence. Neither bothered to yell over the engine noise to talk. Luke wasn’t sure what to say.

  Shortly after they arrived at the compound, Stroud got a call to go retrieve a stranded jeep. “Let’s go, Luke.” He rose from the desk after hanging up the phone and chugged the last of his beer and grabbed another.

  Luke got up from the comfortable chair he’d been sitting in and threw his empty beer can in a nearby fifty-five-gallon drum. As he walked by the cooler, he grabbed another beer for himself and walked to the truck.

  Moments later they were in the cab and heading out of the American compound. They raced through the outskirts of town toward the down vehicle. Jim drove the big truck like a mad man, often hitting fifty, fifty-five–even sixty miles per hour on the narrow suburban streets. Luke felt every bump in the road; his teeth chattered from all the vibrations. A conscious effort was needed to keep from biting his tongue. And it took more effort to drink the beer, but he managed. The beam from the headlights jerked and bounced madly out in front of the huge truck as it maneuvered the uneven rutted road. It was hard on Luke’s eyes. Stroud seemed not to notice.