Cherries

CHAPTER THREE-3

“Come on, Polack, it’s time for us to drink a few beers and celebrate.” Bill said proudly, guiding John to a nearby table.

After a few hours of drinking beer, both were surprised to find that neither of them could stand without support.

“Oh s**t, I can’t see things clearly anymore,” John stated, holding on tightly to the back of his chair.

“I can see okay, but everything is spinning like I’m on a merry-go-round,” Bill slurred.

“Are you gonna puke?”

“I don’t think so right now, but we need to find the way back to our bunks.”

“I do remember that we have to turn left and go to the last row of barracks on top of the hill.”

“Let’s get started before we pass out.”

The two of them leaned onto one another, shuffling through the door and then down the steps to the road. Some of the by-standers watched them closely, amused by their inebriated state. Once they reached the road and turned left, the two soldiers started singing marching tunes from Basic Training while weaving across the road. Both were off-key and very loud, one trying to sing louder than the other. Angry voices echoed in the darkness from every building they passed:

“Hey, a*s holes pipe down!”

“Shut the f**k up out there!

“Sing another note and I’ll personally come out and kick your a*s!”

They disregarded the threats and warnings, not stopping until they reached their destination. Once inside, they collapsed.

At 0300, the loud blast of air raid sirens abruptly awakened the inhabitants of the 90th Replacement Battalion.

Those drunk or stoned sobered up immediately. Chaos reigned! Cherries spilled out from the barracks, most escaping through open doorways, others choosing speed instead, dove through the openings in the sidewalls. In doing so, the mosquito netting pulled from the walls and encapsulated many of the fleeing youths in a nylon cocoon; this further enhanced their panic. Outside, the men bump into one another, confused and unsure of what to do next.

A voice on the public address system began yelling barely audible instructions above the shrill sirens. “Yellow alert! Yellow alert! Head for the nearest bunker and take cover immediately!”

Thankful for the directive, everyone raced toward the available bunkers. Once inside, the men sat nervously on the ground. All were trying to control their breathing, gasping, as if just completing a ten-mile race. Voices rang out from the total darkness within:

“My heart is pounding so fast, it’s going to explode.”

“What in the hell is happening?”

“Are we getting hit?”

“Where are our weapons?”

“Yeah, how are we going to protect ourselves?”

“What in the f**k does a yellow alert mean?”

The sight within the bunker was also bizarre, with twenty soldiers all in different levels of dress. Some were barefoot, wearing nothing else except green boxer shorts – one of them even wore a helmet. Others wore just a pair of trousers and boots, another bunch only a shirt and shorts, and three men stood in complete uniform with helmets. One of the Cherries stood next to the entrance of the bunker holding a broom – the handle facing outward like a bayonet on a rifle.

Just then, a heavyset person wearing a cook’s hat and apron, leisurely strolled into the bunker and took a double glance at the person standing guard with the broom.

Shaking his head side to side, he took in the curious picture. Of course, since he had been at the Replacement Center for almost four months, similar scenes had played out repeatedly.

“Relax, guys, it’s only a test,” he said in a reassuring voice.

“What do you mean “a test”?” a voice snapped in the darkness.

“The camp officers f**k with us every other night and run this alert at different hours. It’s supposed to remind us that we are still at war. It doesn’t bother me any because I’m in the kitchen all night long cooking. The sirens should stop and they’ll give the ‘all clear’ in another minute or so.”

“What a bunch of lifer mother-fuckers,” someone mumbled.

“At least they could have given us some warning. Now I’ve got to clean the s**t out of my pants,” said another.

Five minutes later, the “All Clear” sounded. Everyone began to file out of the bunker, returning to the barracks – thankful, but pissed off about the inconvenience. Almost everyone dropped onto their bunks, but were unable to return to their dreams, still too shaken to sleep. Most just lay in bed awake until dawn.

Bill Sayers and John Kowalski heard their names called during the first shipping formation of the day. Both men got orders for the 25th Infantry Division; the division basecamp was near the city of Cu Chi, which is twenty miles northwest of Saigon. Their convoy was leaving at 1000 hours.

“Thank you, sweet Jesus!” Bill said solemnly, “thank you for not sending us up to the 101st.”

“Amen,” John added.

Those called for the morning transport began arriving at the pickup point, duffel bags in hand, dropping them in the area designated for the 25th Division. With an hour remaining before departure, Bill and John rushed over to the PX to purchase ‘boony hats’. They are very similar to those worn by amateur anglers. The soft, green, cloth-like material enabled a person to shape it into any configuration necessary to protect their eyes and back of the neck from the blazing sun. They were lighter and more practical than the traditional baseball caps worn by new recruits. While both waited for a tailor to embroider their names on the hats, John scanned the showcase filled with division patches.

“Bill, let’s get us a patch for the 25th Division and have it sewn onto the hat too,” John suggested.

They were not sure what the patch looked like, but thankfully, located a display board that identified these unit patches. The patch for the 25th Division looked like a red strawberry, two inches wide by four inches long, with a yellow lightning bolt piercing it diagonally. Each purchased one and had them sewn in place.

John moved to the next counter. Noticing a large Bowie knife among the many knives in this showcase, he immediately purchased it.

“Check this out,” he called over to Bill.

John had already threaded his belt through the leather scabbard. With the knife now hanging from his right hip, he was tying the bottom leather lace around his thigh.

“That knife looks cool as hell!” Bill said, admiring the new item.

“Makes me look kind of bad a*s, doesn’t it?” John asked proudly.

“Yes, it does. I think I’ll buy one for myself,” Bill said, then placed his order with the salesperson.

Neither of them thought of the knife as being much more than a decoration. However, they would both find out later that it was the most valuable tool used while patrolling through the jungle.

At 0930 hours, five two-and-a-half ton trucks, commonly called “Deuce-and-a-Half” trucks, arrived. A layer of sandbags were piled upon the bed of each truck to protect the riders if the truck should hit a mine in the road; a soldier stood behind the cab working on the tripod-mounted M-60 machine g*n on the roof. The Rat Patrol jeeps arrived to escort the Cherries to their next destination.

Bill and John were among the first twenty to board the trucks and fortunate enough to get a seat on one of the two pull-down benches running the length of the truck bed on both sides of the vehicle. The other fifteen had to sit in discomfort on the hard sandbag-covered floor.

The convoy moved out precisely at 1000 hours. Once leaving the security of the 90th Replacement Battalion, a lone helicopter gunship joined the convoy and circled lazily overhead, providing additional security for the parade of five trucks.

They passed endless rice paddies where the Vietnamese people worked painstakingly to harvest their crops in knee-deep water. Young boys rode on top of huge water buffaloes whacking the big brown animals on their rump with a bamboo stick.

Whenever a convoy passed from the opposite direction, everyone raised their arms and flashed peace signs to one another. Every now and again, the passengers saw the front of an Armored Personnel Carrier (APC) poking out from a stand of bushes on the side of the road. Their gunners acknowledged the fellow Americans, waving enthusiastically to the convoy from behind 50-caliber machine guns.

Traveling at speeds in excess of 40 mph, it took no time at all for the convoy to reach Cu Chi – home of the 25th Infantry Division.