Death Valley_ The Summer Offensive, I Corps, August 1969 - Keith Nolan [104]
The NVA must have had solid spider holes, because the arty did not diminish their fire. Charlie One was pinned down in the open with casualties, their response broken down into private, little wars.
Doc was calling to Bleier, “How do you feel?”
“I think I’m okay.”
“You think you’ll be able to walk?”
“I don’t know, I’ve never been shot before.”
Bleier lay immobile behind the visual cover of his tangly brush line. He was parched, exhausted, his mind working slowly. Should I get my pack? No, I don’t know how fast I can move. They’ll probably see me. This hedgerow isn’t much protection. That was a terrifying thought. Only Dave and Doc were near him; the rest had worked their way to the right of the path. They had to keep the NVA down long enough to get the point men and their wounded, and the lieutenant was hollering for the grenade launcher.
Dave answered, “Bleier’s got it, but he’s hit!”
“Well, you get it from him!”
“I can’t, I can’t reach him. There’s too much open space!”
“Well, we gotta get some grenades on that machine gun, until we can get our own machine gun set up!”
Bleier could not see the knoll from his position, but Dave to his right-rear could see just past the edge of the hedgerow. Bleier lobbed rounds over the brush, Dave hollered directions, and the fourth M79 grenade exploded in the general vicinity. He kept blasting rounds up and over, emptying his bags, but it had little effect. The NVA kept scything the torrid air. Bleier sank to the ground, the M79 empty beside him. The sun withered him; his leg wound burned under the bandage. He could hear Vietnamese chattering in the brush; over the squawk box of an abandoned radio he could hear the lieutenant calling the captain, “Christ, they’re all around us. There’s no place to hide. There’s no cover over here. They’re everywhere.”
A GI was raging on the other side of the path. His buddy had just taken a burst in the stomach. Up ahead, the four point men were clawing into the sunbaked paddy, trying to get lower under the machine gun fire. One was screaming, “Jesus, they’re moving, I see ’em! Get that fucking machine gun set up!”
Oh God, Bleier thought, they’re gonna overrun us.
He gripped a wooden cross that his counsellor at Notre Dame, a priest who’d been in WWII, had given him. Bleier was from Appleton, Wisconsin, the son of a salt-of-the-earth Irish Catholic tavern keeper. He stared at the cloudless sky, the sun like a blowtorch against his face, and he prayed. He prayed more fervently than he ever had. “Dear Lord, get me out of here if You can. I’m not going to bullshit You. I’d like to say that if You get me out of here alive, I’ll dedicate my life to You and become a priest. I can’t do that.…” What he did promise was to take life as it came if he survived.
Five minutes later, Bleier got his answer. Doc had bellied up to the boulder with Dave, then shouted to the hedgerow, “Rock, you and I are getting out of here!” Doc stepped out from behind the rock—and instantly screamed and doubled up. A bullet had split his thumb open, but he tried again. This time he made it. Bleier bandaged his hand, then Doc insisted, “Let’s get out of here.” The medic did not have a weapon—many of the medics in the brigade were conscientious objectors, and he may have been one—and Bleier left his empty M79 in the paddy. They were helpless as they crawled down the hedgerow to the left edge of the paddy. They made a beeline for the CP, pushing straight through thickets and elephant grass up to the last clearing. The medic went first, Bleier hobbled after him, and in the trees they found Captain Murphy and the