Into Cambodia - Keith Nolan [61]
Several NVA clambered from their slit trench at the edge of the dense underbrush and made a rush for the disabled Sheridan, whose only unscathed crew member, the driver, had dropped down in his hatch and buttoned up. Cambria screamed at him over the CVC radio mike, without response, as Doc Dailey, manning the M60 on the right side of the track, let loose a long burst. Cambria saw one of the North Vietnamese spin and fall as he came out of the trench, then saw another one rise up with an RPG over his shoulder. Cambria tried to spin his .50-cal toward the man, but it would only revolve thirty degrees to the right before the cupola shield became wedged on a loose can of fifty ammo. He leaned partially out of his cupola to knock the ammo can away, yelling at Doc Dailey to shift his M60 fire, just as the RPG explosion slammed Cambria to one side of the cupola. He was suddenly deaf, and the hair on his face and arms was instantly burned and curled. A shard of red-hot shrapnel ripped a six-inch gash along his backbone and another penetrated his side, brushing against his right kidney. Blood spurted everywhere, but he was so intensely focused on the enemy, so primed and alert with adrenaline, that it didn't register how badly he was hurt.
Doc Dailey had been hurled backward through the open cargo hatch to the floor of the ACAV, disintegrated from the chest up by the direct hit of a weapon designed to penetrate eleven inches of solid steel.1
The other M60 gunner was wounded.
The driver brought his M16 up and opened fire from his hatch as Cambria realized another NVA was lining up their ACAV in the sights of his AK47.
Two or three rounds smashed into the emergency radio strapped to the outside of the cupola, and one slug hit Cambria in the shoulder, severing part of his triceps so that it hung down to his elbow. He could see the NVA standing up in his spiderhole thirty meters ahead, and he tried to fire the .50-cal, but a nerve in his right arm had been cut and his hand jerked too violently to grasp the operating handle to jack a round into the breech. With his left hand, he grabbed an M16 hanging inside the cupola and shoved it over the gun shield. He squeezed the trigger on full automatic and lost control of the weapon as the whole magazine emptied in eighteen different directions. Frantically, he pulled up the M79 grenade launcher from its place behind the hatch cover, and couldn't believe it as the stock came off. It had been shattered by the rocket-propelled grenade. The NVA was still standing in his hole, completely absorbed as he tossed aside his empty magazine and inserted a fresh one. Cambria shoved his spastic right arm into his waist band, then reached over to his right hip with his left hand and yanked the .45 from its holster. He laid his arm across the gun shield, trying to aim.
The NVA reshouldered his reloaded rifle.
Cambria had blood in his eyes and dust on his glasses, and he squinted at the bare head and drab fatigues of the NVA as he squeezed the trigger, missing, missing, missing, until the sixth round hit the NVA. The slide locked back on the seventh and last shot that finally dropped the man.
Cambria couldn't even hear himself as he screamed, but he was in a killing rage and he bellowed at his driver to get moving again. Cambria had fifteen fragmentation grenades inside his cupola, and he wanted to get in among the spiderholes. But the driver was in shock: Out of ammunition, he had his arms crossed on the edge of his hatch, chin resting on them, watching the fight like it was a movie. Cambria's radios were dead, and he had no idea what was going on. He grabbed a spare barrel and reached out to smack his driver's helmet. The kid looked back at him. Cambria was screaming and waving forward: go, go, go! The kid stared with utter incredulity, but the ACAV did lurch forward, only to have the edge of the woods abruptly explode with smoke again.