Silent
Night
By
Larry Buege
4th Infantry
Division 1967-68
Spider
touches my shoulder and instantly I am awake.
“It’s
I
flick on my flashlight under my poncho to check my watch. The watch’s dial under the red light confirms
the time. It is not that I do not trust
him, but it feels like I had just gotten to sleep. My watch is from two to three; after that, I
can return to sleep. Sleep is my only escape from reality.
“Is
anything going on?” I ask in a low whisper.
“No,”
he says, “Nothing unusual.”
“Did
you do the radio check?”
“No.”
Spider
is wrapping himself in his poncho liner, showing no intention of making the
call. I place the radio’s receiver up to
my ear and key the mike.
“Sawbones 83 to Deadwood.” I wait for a
reply.
“Sawbones
83, this is Deadwood. Go ahead. Over.”
“Sawbones 83 to Deadwood. How do you
read us? Over.”
“I
read you
“Sawbones
83…out.”
I sit
back against the trunk of a large bamboo tree and stare into the darkness. If they come, they will come from the
front. Behind me large bamboo shoots rise
up like thick prison bars. With a sharp
machete one might make fifty feet an hour.
No, if they come they will come from the front where the land had once
been cleared for farming. Tall grass has
since reclaimed the clearing.
Spider
is already breathing deeply in the early stages of sleep. War teaches one how to master sleep. Tonight I sleep in the grass at the edge of a
bamboo thicket; two months ago it had been up against the still-warm foundation
of a burned-out schoolhouse in downtown Pleiku—compliments of the Tet offensive.
I
again stare into the darkness. Anything
beyond ten feet is no more than a shadow.
My mind drifts off to the real world.
It is exactly twelve hours away.
At home it is also
“How
can I be lonely with so many people around me?” you ask. “They are my friends,” you say.
I am
forced to acknowledge the wisdom of your argument. Around me are ten riflemen, a sergeant, and a
newly minted second lieutenant. They are
my friends. People back home assume we
are fighting for our country—out of patriotism.
What we fight for, when the bullets begin to fly, is not patriotism; it
is for the guy in the foxhole beside us.
That is what we fight for. It’s
as simple as that—nothing more. I will
offer my life for the people beside me, as they will for me. Two days ago, before the recon patrol had
begun, we had been strangers. I didn’t
even know their names. Now I do. One is named Spider, one is Juice, and we
have a
Perhaps loneliness is not the best term to express my feelings. Perhaps it is deeper than that—more a feeling
of insignificance. I look above me. In the gap of the bamboo shoots I see a
portion of the sky with its endless stars. The cleared area on the ground in
front of me appears to zoom out like a cheap
“In the realm of the endless and eternal universe…do you believe a man
sitting at the edge of a clearing with an M-16 in his lap really makes a difference?”
the stars ask.
I can offer no reply.
In the sky that hangs loosely over the clearing are more stars. One of them is moving toward me. It has to be
a plane or helicopter. At this time of
night, it is more likely the former. A mile south of me, it begins to
circle. I see the glowing, orange ribbon
first. It looks like a streamer of crepe
paper someone is waving in the nighttime sky.
But the fiery brilliance is breathtaking. Seconds later the sound reaches my ears. It is a low moan, like a painful wail from
some mythical monster.
The Air Force calls them AC-47s, twin-engine planes equipped with three
mini-guns each capable of spitting out 6,000 rounds a minute. Those of us unfortunate enough to have seen
them in action from the ground called them “Spooky” or “Puff the Magic Dragon.”
I watch the plane circle around spitting out its tracer fire. On the last round, it comes within 1,000
yards of our position. I key the mike on
our radio.
“Sawbones 83 to Deadwood, over.”
“Sawbones 83, this is Deadwood.
Go ahead, over.”
“Be advised we have a Spooky at our front door. Does he know we are here? Does he have our coordinates? Over.”
“Wait one, Sawbones 83…”
I visualize Deadwood back at base camp with his feet upon some
desk. He will have a cup of coffee in
his left hand and will now be reaching for a sandwich with his right. After he has taken a couple of bites, he will
pick up the landline and place a call to whoever is in charge of Spooky. It might not be fair, but that is the image
lodged in my mind.
“Sawbones 83, this is Deadwood. Over.”
“Deadwood, this is Sawbones 83.
We’re still here. We’re not going
anywhere.”
“Be advised S-2 (military intelligence) has reason to believe Charlie is
visiting your sector. Spooky was
dispatched in your honor. When he leaves
they might place some H and I rounds (harassment and interdiction) around your
perimeter to keep Charlie honest.”
“Roger that, Deadwood. Sawbones 83, out.”
I hope my voice sounded calm and professional over the radio. It is not the way I feel. One small error and Spooky will be raining
bullets down upon us like a summer hailstorm.
Friendly fire won’t even earn a purple heart. Does a wound from friendly fire hurt
less? I wonder how well our lieutenant
scored in his map-reading class at OCS.
I wait in the darkness, watching Puff do her thing. The ribbons of fire created by the tracers
are almost a work of art as they lace through the nighttime sky. The moaning sound is unsettling, sending a
chill through my body. It reminds me of
the song They Call the Wind Maria from the musical Paint Your Wagon. How does that verse go?…
“Maria makes the mountains sound like folks was out
there dying.”
Is someone out there dying under that deluge of gunfire? I wonder. Maybe no one will ever know.
“If someone in a woods cries out in pain and
there is no one there to hear the cry, does he still suffer pain?” I ask.
“That’s stupid,” I reply. “The
pain is just as real.”
“Must you two always bicker?” a third voice says.
“Yes, we must,” they reply in unison.
They are both right, of course—each in his own
way. Somewhere, as I sit here in the
dark, a woman is being raped. Not a
sensual sex act, but a brutal, violent attack that is every bit as traumatic as
anything this war has to offer.
Somewhere, there is a young child suffering pain from the terminal
stages of cancer. Somewhere, there is a
mother or wife receiving a notice from a military chaplain. But I do not know them; therefore, they do
not exist. They never happened.
“That is precisely the point I was trying to make,” I say.
“But it’s still real to the people involved,” I reply.
It is obvious those two are not about to give it a rest. I don’t know why I put up with them. Spider doesn’t suffer from such
conflicts. He described his hour as “nothing
unusual.”
I lay my gun on the ground and reach into my rucksack for what remains
of my dinner. It is a can of ham and
lima beans from the C-ration pack. It
has no commercial value, as it cannot be traded for anything. It is literally the bottom of the food
chain. When you’re hungry, you’ll eat
anything. I open the can with my P-38
can opener and scoop out the contents with my plastic spoon. It isn’t the tastiest meal, but it does give
me something to do and keeps my mind from wandering.
I finish the beans with a polite, but subdued, burp and toss the can to
the side. It will have to be picked up
in the morning—nothing will be left to confirm our existence. But then it will be daylight. We will be able to see what we are doing.
I reach out with my right hand for my M-16—it isn’t there. I am overtaken with panic. My heart races within my chest. I begin to hyperventilate. With both hands I begin patting the
ground. It only takes a moment or two to
find the gun, but my heart continues to race.
I hold it close to my chest. I
don’t know why. My gun is still a
virgin. It has never been fired in
anger. Hopefully, it never will. Every time the fecal matter hits the
proverbial fan, a medic is too busy to need a gun. Still, it is my security blanket and I need
it. I even have dreams at night about
losing my gun. Some people have dreams
about having no clothes. I have dreams
of having no gun. I am sure other people
do not share such dreams. Sometimes I
worry about my mental stability. Even
emotionally stable people have been known to crack during wartime.
I clutch my gun to my chest like a mother clutching an infant just
rescued from perilous danger; then I feel foolish. I pull my poncho over my head and turn on my
flashlight: it is two-thirty. My watch
is half done.
I stare into the darkness for another ten minutes. In the darkness, there is nothing to
see. With no wind, there is nothing to
hear. Except for the lingering smell of
ham and lima beans, there is nothing to smell.
A university psychology department could not have constructed a better
sensory-deprivation lab. It is good, but
not perfect. About every five minutes,
an artillery shell falls around our perimeter.
They do provide more personal space than Spooky did. None fall closer than half a mile. No one in our squad is even awakened.
Those noises I can overlook.
Those noises I can understand.
What is disconcerting are the occasional noises coming from in front of me. They are subtle
to be sure, perhaps just my imagination.
A lonely watch can do that to you.
If someone else were present, the noise would qualify for a “Did you
hear that?” Nothing more.
Sometimes the noises are real, but that does not make them
sinister. Every land has its share of
wildlife capable of creating noises at night.
I stare more closely at the distant shadows—they appear to be
moving. I rub my eyes and look
again. Sometimes when there is no background
for reference, objects appear to move. Psychologists
call it auto-kinesis. The shadows continue
to move. I focus on two shadows, paying
particular attention to the space between them—the space remains constant. The movement is probably my imagination.
On the practical side, it would make no difference if they were real or
imaginary. We are a recon team. We are to avoid contact at all costs. We are motionless and silent. We have trees at our back, eliminating
visible shadows. We will see them long
before they see us.
What would happen if I did come face-to-face with my counterpart? Would I hesitate? Would he hesitate? Our country has been in many wars. All our old enemies are now our friends. Can I kill a man tonight who tomorrow could
have been my friend? If I were to
pretend I don’t see him, would he pretend he doesn’t see me and walk away?
I push my thoughts into the far recesses of my brain, but they are like
articles of clothing in an over-stuffed suitcase—they resist closure.
I remain in place leaning against my bamboo backrest and give the
chimerical bogey the right of passage.
The next fifteen minutes are uneventful.
I again crawl under my poncho to check the time: It is now five minutes
to three; my watch is almost over. I key
the mike on the radio. It is time for
our hourly radio check.
“Sawbones 83 to Deadwood.” There is no answer.
“Sawbones 83 to Deadwood.” I again wait for a reply.
“Sawbones 83, this is Deadwood.
Go ahead, over.”
I can hear radio music in the background. Deadwood obviously does not get as much fresh
air as we do.
“Sawbones 83 to Deadwood, how do you read us, over?”
“I read you
“Sawbones 83, out.”
It should now be
“It’s
Juice rubs his eyes in hopes it will help him see into the darkness; it
does not.
“Anything happen on your shift?” he asks.
“Same-O, Same-O,” I reply, “Nothing unusual.”
It is good
that war is so terrible;
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