I stared at the hills in the distance.
Susan said in a soft voice, “Paul, we can go back now.”
“Yeah… well, we should have asked to be relieved or reinforced, and maybe the company commander did, though I don’t remember… but this running battle had taken on a life of its own, and I think it had a lot to do with killing more of the people who’d killed and wounded so many of us… it was like a fight to the finish, and as frightened and fatigued as we were, all we wanted to do was kill more of them. In fact, something very strange had happened to us.”
I stood. “It went on for a total of seven days, and by the seventh day, you couldn’t guess that we were nice American kids from a nice, clean country. I mean, we literally had blood on our hands, on our ripped fatigues, we had seven-day beards, and hollow bloodshot eyes, and filth on our bodies, and we weren’t thinking about shaves and showers, or food or bandages… we were thinking about killing another gook.”
We both stood there and finally Susan said, “I understand why you wouldn’t want to talk about this.”
I looked at her and said, “I’ve told this story a few times. This is not the story I don’t like to talk about.”
I walked fifty meters farther into the camp, and Susan followed. “We moved deeper into these hills, and on the seventh day, we were patrolling down a ridgeline, looking for another fight. The company commander put out flank security — two guys in the ravines on either side of this ridge. I was one of the guys. Me and this other guy scramble down into this ravine, and we’re walking parallel to the company, who we could still see on the ridgeline above us. But then the ravine got deeper, the ridgeline turned, and the other guy was way out in front of me, and now I’ve lost visual contact with him and the rest of the company. So, I’m walking by myself, which is not a good thing to do, and I’m trying to catch up to the guy in front of me, but as it turned out, he’d scrambled back up the side of the ridge to try to find the company.”
I moved to the base of the steep hill where there were still some huts, collapsed and overgrown with vines. I looked up at the hill. “It was over there, on the other side of this hill… I’m walking by myself, and I decided it was time to climb back up the ridge and find everyone. Just as I was about to do that, I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye, and standing on the other side of the ravine, not twenty meters away, is a North Vietnamese soldier with an AK-47 rifle, and he’s looking at me.”
I took a deep breath and continued, “So… we’re staring at each other, and this guy is dressed in tiger fatigue pants, but he’s bare-chested, and he has bloody bandages wrapped around his chest. My rifle is not at the ready, and neither is his. So, now it’s a matter of who gets off the first shot, but to be honest, I was frozen with fear, and I thought he was, too. But then… the guy throws his rifle down, and I started to breathe again. He was surrendering, I thought. But no. He starts walking toward me and I raise my rifle and yell, ‘Dung lai!’ Stop. Halt. But he keeps coming at me, and I yell again, ‘Dung lai!’ He then pulls a long machete out of his belt. He’s saying something, but I can’t figure out what the hell he’s trying to tell me. By this time, I’d had enough of this, and I was going to blow him away. But then I see he’s pointing to the entrenching tool — the shovel hanging from my web belt, and all of a sudden, I realize that he wants to go hand-to-hand.”
I felt a cold sweat forming on my face, and I listened to the birds and the insects in the trees, and I was back in that ravine again.
I said to Susan, or to myself, “He wants to go hand-to-hand, and he’s spitting out these words. I didn’t understand a thing he was saying, but I knew exactly what he was saying. He was saying, ‘Let’s see how brave you are without your artillery, your gunships, your jet fighters.’ He was saying, ‘You fucking coward. Let’s see if you have any real balls, you overfed, overindulged, fucking American pig.’ That’s what he was saying. Meanwhile, he’s coming closer, and he’s not even ten feet from me now, and I looked into his eyes, and I’ve never seen hate like that before or since. I mean, this guy is totally around the bend, he’s been wounded, and he’s alone like maybe he’s the last survivor of his unit… and he’s motioning for me to come closer, you know, like in a schoolyard fight. Come on, punk. Let’s see if you have any balls. Take the first swing… then… I have no idea why… but I threw my rifle down… and he stops and smiles. He points again to my shovel, and I nod to him.”
I stopped talking and stood on a rock at the base of the hill. I took a few breaths and wiped my face.
Susan said, “Paul, let’s go.”
I shook my head and went on, “So, who’s crazier, me or him? I reached around, unsnapped my entrenching shovel, and set the blade at a ninety degree angle to the handle and locked it in place. I took my helmet off and threw it on the ground. He’s not smiling anymore, and his face is intent and focused. He’s looking in my eyes, and he wants me to look at him, but I’m from South Boston and I know you keep your eyes on the other guy’s weapon. So, now we’re circling around each other, stalking, and neither of us is saying a word. He swings the machete, and it cuts the air in front of my face, but I don’t step back because he’s not close enough… but his machete is longer than my shovel, and this is going to be a problem if he comes closer. So, round and round we go, until finally he makes his move and aims a diagonal blow at the side of my neck.”
I stopped speaking and thought about what happened next. Strangely, though I’d rarely relived it in detail, it all came back to me. I said, “I jump back and it misses, then he comes in again with the point of the machete aimed at my throat. I step to the side, stumble, and fall. He’s on me in half a second and goes for my legs with the machete, but I swivel my legs away, and he cuts the ground. I jump to my feet as he delivers another blow toward my neck, but I deflect it with my shovel, then bring the shovel up, like an uppercut, and catch the side of his jaw. The shovel blade, which I keep sharp, shaves off a piece of his jaw, and this big piece of bloody flesh is hanging there, and he’s in temporary shock, which is all I need. I swing the shovel around like I’m swinging a bat at a fastball and the blade nearly severs his right forearm and the machete flies out of his hand.”
I thought I should let this story end there, but I continued. “So… he’s standing there and the game is over. I have a prisoner, if I want one, or I could let him walk away. Or… I could kill him with my entrenching tool… he’s staring at me, this big bloody piece of his jaw hanging, and his forearm running blood… so, what do I do? I throw my entrenching tool down and pull my K-bar knife. His eyes show fear for the first time, then he shoots a quick look at his machete on the ground, and he goes for it. I kick him in the head, but he’s still scrambling for the machete. I come around him and grab his hair with my left hand, jerk him upright and pull his head back. Then I cut his throat with my knife. I can still feel the blade slicing through the cartilage of his windpipe, and I hear a hiss of air as the windpipe is severed… I cut the artery, too, and blood is gushing out all over my hand… I let him go, but he’s still standing, and he turns to me and we’re face-to-face, and blood is gushing out of his throat, and I could see the life dying in his eyes, but he won’t stop staring at me, so we look at each other until his legs collapse, and he falls face forward.”