Into Cambodia - Keith Nolan [224]
But no one was ever caught in his platoon, and whether or not patrols were shammed depended on the strength of character of the young buck sergeants in charge.
Chapter 41: WITHDRAWAL PAINS
Private Spurgeon was humping his M60 machine gun over one shoulder, a three-hundred-round bandolier draped across his chest from the other shoulder, as they filed across a paddy. He had transferred into A Company, 2d Battalion (Mechanized), 47th Infantry of the 9th Division, during the final week of Cambodia, and being the new guy again the squad had unloaded the M60 on him. It was nicknamed the pig and at twenty-one pounds, it was an ass kicker. The pig ate ammo, so at Lieutenant Peske's insistence, whenever they made dismounted patrols, everyone in the platoon humped an M60 bandolier in addition to their own M16 ammunition and at least three hand grenades.
On this patrol, however, a sergeant noticed a man without the extra bandolier. The sergeant tried to give him one.
The man told the sergeant to go to hell.
This disgruntled GI was known as Duck and he was dead weight, a surly loudmouth who disappeared when the shooting started and remained invisible, head down behind cover, until it was all over.
Lieutenant Peske tried to explain why they had to distribute the load, but Duck only mouthed off that he was being singled out to carry extra ammo because he was the only black on the patrol. Peske pointed out that everyone had an extra bandolier. Duck didn't want to be there. He wasn't listening to anything. Several grunts had gathered, and the barrel of Duck's M16, hanging from his shoulder with the sling through the front sight, happened to be staring into the face of one of them, Harvey, a usually amiable kid who loved the game of war and for that reason was one of Spurgeon's buddies and one of Peske's old reliables.
Harvey was too disgusted by the whole show to simply move aside. Instead, he spat, “Get that muzzle outta my face!”
Duck glowered back, “It's on safety. Don't mothafuckin' worry 'bout it!”
Harvey instantly brought his shotgun up and Duck unslung his M16, but before either hothead, black or white, could take action, Peske stepped between them. Wearing thin himself, Peske finally shouted at Duck to pick up his trash and get moving. Duck, immature, angry, hot, and miserable, suddenly threw his Ml6 to his shoulder and shouted down the barrel into Peske's chest, “I'm going to kill you right now!”
Angry and frustrated, Peske challenged him to pull the trigger. Duck did not move, for as soon as he had raised his M16 on Peske, the grunts around him had done likewise on him. Duck lowered his rifle, warning Peske that he would get him at a time and place of his own choosing.
Such threats no longer earned courts-martial.
Being fragged was one concern too many, but it was a sign of the times. Everything was fouled up.
Everything.
Peske's grunts were brothers, but they were all terrified of being the last man to die in Vietnam. They told him of a predecessor who'd been fragged. He'd been too gung-ho, they said, the story probably untrue, the sentiment real enough, and Peske conferred with one of his fellow platoon leaders. The man was no help. He said the guys had the right idea, and he for