Loon - Jack McLean [46]
The yo-yos were the biggest hit. Machine gunner Tom Morrissey instantly made one of them his own. For weeks it never left his side. During an occasional quiet moment he could be seen alone pulling it out and, through the magic of a string and a round block of wood, removing himself to some distant New Hampshire childhood place.
Days later, Tom and I were on a patrol with the 2nd Platoon. I noticed him, far ahead where the column twisted around and into the tree line. He was at the edge of a rice paddy, kneeling to fill his canteen with the tepid swamp water. As he rose, M60 machine gun carefully balanced on his shoulder, Ray-Ban aviator glasses in place, he pulled the yo-yo from his hip pocket and with one downward thrust spun a perfect cat’s cradle.
Then, with the flick of his shoulder, in a ritual of ultimate cool that he had performed a thousand times before, his weapon fell softly into his hands. In one unbroken motion he slapped a full bandolier of NATO 7.62 caliber ammo into the top, chambered a round, flipped off the safety, and followed his fire team back into the jungle.
Forever Tom.
I’m certain that no one saw it but me.
Six months later Tom Morrissey was dead.
A downside of the truce was that resupply was not permitted. On the upside, however, the word was passed that we would be moving out for a daylong march across the Firebreak to C-2, one of the McNamara Line listening posts, to stand lines around a bridge that spanned a small river just south of Con Thien. The word was that a hot dinner would be waiting for us, and, given the river, we all looked forward to our first bath in a month. It sounded like paradise and, as the boys of Charlie and Delta companies were to find out, for the next five months it was as close to paradise as a 0311 WESTPAC grunt could expect.
The hump across the Firebreak was hell. In one long day we covered the same amount of ground that weeks earlier had taken us three days. For once, however, the rumors were correct. The promised dinner of roast beef was waiting for us when we arrived—our first hot chow in more than thirty days. After nearly a month of C rations, our stomachs reacted with joy at the eating and with pain moments later as it rapidly flew out the other end.
The position was known as the C-2 bridge site. This differentiated it from C-2 itself, a separate artillery position directly to our south. The bridge site sat hard on a dusty rutted dirt road dubbed Route 561. The road was the north-south link between the village of Cam Lo to the south and Con Thien two thousand meters to the north. The bridge had been built several months prior by marine engineers in an effort to improve supply lines to Con Thien. The area was nicknamed “the Washout” since, during heavy monsoonal rains, the water flooded the low-lying ground. The terrain along the road consisted of low rolling hills and waist-high brush. It would be continually patrolled by us throughout the winter and early spring.
Our first assignment, in addition to patrolling and security, was to improve the shoddy bunker system that existed. According to the 1st Battalion’s monthly chronology, none of the bunkers could be considered complete. We were joined by several support units—including engineers, artillery, and tank and antitank detachments—to both assist us and make mine sweeps along the road.
We ran constant patrols, but it was a quiet area with little activity. We could hear incoming slamming into Con Thien almost daily, followed by certain strikes on C-2 to our south. As an artillery position, C-2 was a more valuable target than our little bridge. When C-2 was being hit, we could hear the rounds coming over our heads from the north. It was eerie but soon became comforting. They weren’t aiming at us.
Our first tasks, as always, were to secure