Loon - Jack McLean [73]
The dead came alive before his tearing eyes.
Carbaugh, W F. Woody Carbaugh.
Carbaugh had replaced Tillery as a squad leader in the 2nd Platoon when Tillery had become a radio operator. He was from Thurmont, Maryland, not far from where Tillery’s family had moved several years before. Barely twenty-one years old, Sergeant Carbaugh was dead. Tillery had thought that the first artillery round had landed near Carbaugh’s hole. That was now confirmed. It had, in fact, landed inside of his small hole. Tillery unbuttoned the right thigh pocket of his pants and carefully placed Carbaugh’s dog tag deep inside.
His right thumb then slowly rubbed over the surface of the second dog tag, removing the mud and the blood.
Klein, J. Joe Klein.
Tillery had noticed earlier that Klein and Carbaugh had been sharing a fighting hole. They must have died together, instantly. Joe Klein, a 2nd Platoon machine gunner from Highland Park, New Jersey, had just celebrated his nineteenth birthday. Tillery opened his pocket and carefully slid Joe Klein’s dog tag inside.
Tillery was now becoming numb and disoriented. He still held a handful of dog tags.
Eaton, C. L.
Cliff Eaton from Cortland, New York, was a PFC grunt and another member of Tillery’s and my former 2nd Platoon. He was twenty-one years old, and now dead.
Barbour, J. W.
Jim Barbour was a nineteen-year-old PFC from New Rochelle, New York.
Tillery was now in a fog. Tears rolled down his face, making it difficult to focus on the names as they appeared.
King, G. L., Jr.
George King, a nineteen-year-old PFC from Clatskanie, Oregon. King was a 2nd Platoon machine gunner. Tillery had last seen him, seconds before the final rocket, bravely hauling dead and wounded marines up the hill to the LZ under heavy incoming fire.
Morrissey, T. J., Jr.
Tom Morrissey. “Oh my God, no,” said Tillery out loud. “Not Tom. Please not Tom.” Morrissey, the yo-yo throwing, Ray-Ban shaded machine gunner, had been the soul of the 2nd Platoon. We all wanted to be like Tom—as a marine and as a person. He was the personification of a totally cool professional. He was a treasure, and now he was dead. Tom was married and had a young son, Tom the third, who was his pride and joy. He had barely seen the baby before he’d left for Vietnam from their home in Dover, New Hampshire. Corporal Tom Morrissey was five weeks shy of his twenty-first birthday.
Placing the rest of the dog tags in his pocket, Tillery took a deep breath, wiped his eyes, and crawled out of his hole to rejoin the Skipper.
The incoming artillery rounds were now walking their way back toward the Delta Company lines and away from us. Negron was desperately trying to get Marine Corps artillery and air support directed back to the guns in Co Roc. He was finally informed by John Camacho, his artillery forward observer, that our gunners were not permitted to fire on coordinates that were located inside of Laos.
“Fuck that shit,” said Negron.
Negron pulled out his map and compass. He gave Camacho grid coordinates that were just inside the Vietnam border from Laos.
“Tell them to fire on these coordinates,” said Negron. “After the first round, tell them to adjust outward on the next round. After the second round, tell them to adjust outward again on the third round.”
Negron had been around. He knew that the artillery gunners had to report the requested grid coordinates but did not have to report on subsequent adjustments. With three of four adjustments, Camacho was able to move our artillery fire from safely within South Vietnam to directly on top of Co Roc, Laos.
Our defensive perimeter was now so thin that I could not see the manned holes on either side of me. Unless we did something fast, we’d be fucked—just as surely as if we were sitting in Khe Sanh or Con Thien. We were sitting ducks for their artillery, we were completely surrounded by a significantly superior force of ground troops, and night was falling. The guns had our