A Culpable Innocence
Chapter 4: Landing Zone Tiger (pg. 67)
They continued at this uneven
pace for about an hour before Erickson suddenly stopped. Crouching, he motioned
for the others to join up behind him. Silently, he pointed to a trip wire his
gun barrel had uncovered and directed their attention to some other danger
ahead until they each nodded their recognition. With two fingers he steered two
of his men to the right and two to the left. Then he pulled Regis close and
whispered, “a bouncing betty here and a likely minefield over there across that
clearing.” Regis had no idea what danger a euphemistic “bouncing betty”
threatened, but “minefield” registered at once. Erickson squinted, taking in
the scene before him. Whispering to Regis, he explained, “We’re close to
something Charlie doesn’t want us to see. This is his ‘unwelcome’ sign. Stay
close. We’re going to move in together.” (Continue
on pg. 68) . . . Finally, he (Erickson)
pulled a hand grenade from his belt and started running towards a raised
portion of land directly in front of them. Regis watched his approach, but it
was not until Erickson had entered the small clearing that Regis saw it:
partially concealed in the shrubbery across from the clearing was a hole, no
larger than a man’s girth. Erickson sprung the pin on the grenade and tossed it
into the hole. Racing back to Regis’ position, he threw himself on the ground
just as the grenade exploded. Smoke and dust rose from the suspected cave
entrance. Erickson quickly readied himself in a firing position. Like the other
men in the row facing the clearing, Regis aimed his rifle straight ahead. He
could hear the blood rushing through his temples. His mouth was dry, although
he was neither aware of it nor able to differentiate the sound in his temples from the
landscape before him. His head and the clearing were pulsing together in one
rhythmic pounding. Then there was a rustling beyond the clearing and the
bombed-out hole. First one Vietnamese appeared. Then others quickly followed.
They were scurrying out of another concealed cave entrance, wearing little more
than loin coverings. Some were carrying weapons. Erickson opened fire. The rest
of the squad followed his lead. They rose in unison and advanced together,
firing their weapons at will. Regis did not fire his M-14. He was paralyzed
partly by fear and the moment’s sudden intensity and, perhaps equally, by his
lack of training. His non-participation was fortunate for his fellow soldiers,
since he had fallen behind the others who were now in his line of fire. In
truth, Regis was not really aware of his failure to maintain a proper position
in a fire fight; and his instincts were not honed by any experience he might
call upon. He held his rifle forward with his finger on the trigger, but did nothing
other than tag along behind Erickson and the others. By the time they had
covered the ground between them and the second cave entrance, the firing had
ceased. Erickson tossed another grenade into this opening and hollered, “fire in the hole.” Everybody else hit the deck; but before
Regis could react, Erickson swirled and slammed into him, driving him to the
ground. The grenade exploded, sending vibrations through Regis body and
momentarily blunting his awareness with its concussive force. Smoke and dust
billowed from the cave entrance.
“Shiiiit!” Erickson exclaimed, his full
weight bearing heavily on Regis. “I sure as hell didn’t expect you to be on my
ass.” He leaped up and began to take stock of the situation. “Anybody hit?”
There had been some sporadic return fire. But nobody had been hit. “Check out
their casualties. Watch out for fakers and booby traps. There are probably
other approaches they’ve mined.” Erickson turned to Regis who was still lying
on the ground. He extended a hand. As he lifted Regis to his feet, he smiled
and said, “Well, at least you didn’t shoot one of us. You did OK. It’s
different for everyone you know—I mean, the first time in combat. This was your
first time, right?”
Regis dusted himself off with
his jungle hat. “Yeah, first time,” he replied.
(Continue on pg. 70) . . . Washington
nudged Regis in the back. ”Forget him, He’s dead, man. Shortimer
finished him with a burst. He don’t know he’s done for . . . not worth another
bullet anyhow.”
Regis compelled his body
forward, but his mind was stuck on the dying enemy soldier. Just as a beautiful
scene arrests the mind into awestruck silence, this man’s slow death
dumbfounded Regis. Nature, in either life or death, confounds whenever it is
directly confronted. It is only in recollection that the humble organism of the
brain attempts to describe or otherwise make sense of a reality that defies
words. And so Regis’ body mimicked the movement of his comrades in arms while
his mind hovered over the image of the dying man. What had this man been doing
when the first grenade exploded? He might have been sitting on his cot and
cleaning his rifle in preparation for an ambush of unsuspecting GIs. Or maybe
he was writing a letter to his girlfriend or wife. His shirt pockets had been
unbuttoned. Had Shortimer found anything in them?
Maybe he had a picture of a loved one or a letter from home folded neatly next
to his heart. How long had he been away from home? Regis like all other
American soldiers was committed to this war for a single tour of duty—twelve
months—unlike previous wars fought by the U.S. But this soldier had been
prepared to fight for the duration or until he was eliminated from combat.
Regis wondered whether he had been conscripted for service or volunteered. And
if conscripted, did he have any occupational choices like those that presented
themselves to Regis? These were questions that could not be answered. What
Regis did know about this man was that he was an enemy soldier, an identity
they shared.
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