Cherries

CHAPTER FOUR-1

CHAPTER FOURThe Rat Patrol jeeps concluded their mission after leading the convoy deep inside of Cu Chi Base Camp. All 126 Cherries stood in the trucks, trying in vain to rid themselves of the clinging red dust.

Bill laughed when John removed his sunglasses.

“What’s so funny?”

“You have white rings around your eyes.”

“And what, that’s supposed to be funny?”

“Yeah, with all that red s**t on your face you look like a f*****g raccoon.”

“At least you can see my eyes. Your whole head looks like it was dipped in shit.”

“Go ahead and have your fun,” Bill grumbled. He brushed himself feverishly in an attempt to get all the dust removed from his clothes. “Give me a hand wiping my back, and I’ll brush you off.”

“Okay, just don’t play with my a*s when I turn around,” John replied.

“You’re all a*s and I won’t be able to avoid it.”

“What – are you a comedian now?”

As they finished brushing each other’s back, loud voices on the side of the trucks were barking commands to the group.

“All right, Cherries, un-a*s my trucks right now!”

“Come on, come on, move it!”

“I mean now! Let’s go, everyone!”

“I want four ranks starting right here,” bellowed an impatient Puerto Rican sergeant. He stood forty feet away and drew a long line across the ground with a large stick. “Let’s go! Get on the line, I don’t have all day!” He barked.

The Cherries leapt from the trucks and moved quickly to form four ranks, unsure if punishment was forthcoming for not being on line fast enough.

“What the f**k, are we in basic training again?” John mumbled to Bill.

“I hope not. We’re supposed to be all done with that. This is Vietnam, isn’t it?”

The sergeant paraded back and forth in front of the formation. He wore a black baseball cap with the word ‘Cadre’ stenciled on the front in large white letters. It was impossible to see the look in his eyes, as mirrored aviator sunglasses covered them. His beer belly looked unnatural for a man with a thirty-four inch waist and it bounced with every step he took.

“Listen up, Cherries!” He shouted in an attempt to get the ranks to settle down. “You are here for a mandatory week-long course of in-country training. During this time, we will review your past training and teach you all about your enemy. Our first class will begin in fifteen minutes. When I give the word, grab your gear and store it in the hooches behind me, then return to the exact spot you are standing in right now.

“You’ll all have plenty of time later to unpack and get squared away. You have ten minutes, starting now. Move out!”

The ranks collapsed as men rushed to find their duffel bags in the large pile. Once in hand they raced to the various hooches. Bill and John could not find two adjacent cots in either of the first two hooches, but were successful in the third one. They threw the gear on top and moved back outside.

“What do you ‘spose this is gonna be like?” Bill asked.

“Most likely a lot of classroom training, just like we did in Basic.”

“Hell, I thought there’s a war going on here. Why are we going to sit around in classrooms?” Bill complained.

“You heard the guy. He said that we were going to learn all about the enemy.”

“What more do we have to learn? A little guy out there has a g*n and wants to kill me. I have to kill him first – it’s that simple. We don’t need to learn anything more.”

The Puerto Rican sergeant led the formation to a large shaded area not too far from the hooches. This was the first classroom of the day.

“Have a seat on the ground, gentlemen. If you have any smokes, feel free to light up.”

He stood in front of the group, next to a large six-foot wide green chalkboard mounted between two trees. “Sgt. Ramone,” printed in large, white chalky letters across the top, let everybody know who he was.

“Don’t be afraid to sit on the ground,” he stated after observing the reluctance of some to do so. “You’ll be mighty lucky if this is the dirtiest you get in this country. You ground pounders (infantry) will be living on the ground. So get used to it now while there’s no pressure on you.”

He waited for the entire group to take a seat before continuing, “This area is where you will come for most of the classes during this course. My name is Sergeant Ramone,” he enunciated both syllables and then used the stick to point out his name on the board.

“I will be one of your instructors during this next week. Today, we will review military maneuvers, different attack and defensive formations, the military alphabet, coding, map reading, and the proper use of the PRC-25 field radio. Are there any questions before we begin?”

No hands went up.

“Good, let’s get started.”

Later that day, John and Bill unpacked their belongings in the single-story screened building.

“Those classes we just finished were not all that bad,” John admitted.

“Now I beg to differ with you. It was boring as hell to go over all that s**t again. We’ve had enough of it shoved down our throats in the last six months.”

“It may be boring, but look at it this way. It’s one less day that we’ll have to spend in the field.”

Bill thought about that statement for a second, and then replied, “I guess you’re right.”

John looked at his watch, surprised. “Damn, it’s already 10:30. We better get some sleep. I have a feeling it’s going to be another long day tomorrow.”

Both flopped down on the hard, olive-colored canvas cots and quickly fell asleep.

The following morning, everyone drew out an M-16 rifle from the armory before heading out for the first class of the day.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” the instructor began, after everyone was seated in the outdoor classroom. “We will spend the morning taking these weapons apart, cleaning them, and then putting them back together again.”

Moans and objections echoed from the crowd.

“Aw, f**k!”

“We did all this s**t hundreds of times already.”

“What a f*****g waste!”

The instructor, having heard enough, got everyone’s undivided attention when he struck the chalkboard with a stick; it sounded like the sharp c***k of a rifle.

“Knock off the bullshit!” He ordered. “This part of the class is so important that it may very well save your lives!” He pushed both hands into his pants pockets and walked among the group. “It’s true that you’ve done this a hundred times already, but how many of you can do it blindfolded? Do you know that most attacks and firefights occur in the dead of the night? It is pitch black and you cannot see your hand in front of your face. Now just suppose your weapon fails during one of these firefights, and the VC are rushing over the wire to kill you. Are you able to take your M16 apart and fix it in the dark, so you can protect yourself?”

He hesitated for a few seconds and then continued, “Before this class is over today, each of you will learn to do just that. The circumstances will be different – it won’t be dark and enemy soldiers will not be trying to kill you, but you will successfully demonstrate this ability while blindfolded.”

Again, protests and moaning sounded from the group.

“This is bullshit!”

“f**k this s**t! I’m a cook and probably won’t handle a rifle the whole time I’m here.”

The infantry guys took the advice to heart and began to disassemble and assemble their weapons. Each time, they were more proficient and confident. There was no need for blindfolds; they were all able to demonstrate this task with their eyes closed.

After lunch, the group returned to the classroom with weapons in hand.

“I sure feel more confident being here with a rifle now,” Bill said.

“I know what you mean! We’ve been in-country almost a week and this is the first time I’ve actually held one in my hands.”

“Isn’t that odd, too, with everything we’ve heard about Vietnam during our training in the states?”

“You’re right, Bill. I was expecting to get shot at or at least mortared when we walked off that plane.”

“I was thinking the same thing. Now, if you think about the replacement center and now this place – aside from the convoys – I haven’t seen anyone carrying a weapon or heard shots fired since our arrival.”

“I don’t know what to think. Maybe all that s**t in training was just a bunch of brainwashing.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Bill responded. “This is, supposedly, a secure rear area, and maybe they already killed all the enemy soldiers around here. I heard some of the guys talking earlier about firebases out in the boonies. That’s where the real s**t hits the fan.”

“I wish we could just stay here,” John said sincerely.

“Me too, old buddy.”

The class spent the afternoon on the firing range, where each soldier could test-fire his weapon. They hit many of the targets; bits and pieces of cardboard sailed through the air and fell onto the already littered ground. Puffs of dirt rose into the air around each target, as the bullets burrowed deep into the dry, hard earth.

After each person had fired thirty rounds, they gathered and began walking back to the outdoor training classroom.

Sgt. Ramone was waiting there for everyone to complete the short walk back from the firing range. “Gentlemen, everybody enjoy target practice?”

“Yeah, it was great!”

“It’s about time!”

“Good, I’m glad you enjoyed yourselves. We’re all done for the day, except for the cleaning of these weapons.” The men groaned one more time. “Nobody leaves for chow until each piece of equipment is spotless and returned to the armory. I will look them over later this evening and God help the poor slob who did not do a good enough job. After chow, you are on your own until the morning formation. Have a good evening!” Sergeant Ramone left the Cherries and headed toward the mess hall.

“Well, so much for our sense of security!” John spat.

“I know the feeling.”

The following morning, the class returned to the firing range, where they found various weapons displayed, both on a table and at different intervals across the range firing positions. Five additional Cadres were also present to help with this class.

Sgt. Ramone split the men into five groups so each person would have an opportunity to fire many of them. The arsenal consisted of M-79 grenade launchers, 50 caliber, and M-60 machine guns, one sniper rifle with attached scope, smoke grenades and a 60mm mortar tube and base plate. The Cadre put on a mortar demonstration and fired three rounds: white phosphorus, a night flare, and high explosive, for those soldiers seeing them for the first time. One lucky person in each group would also have an opportunity to fire the LAW, a two-piece plastic disposable rocket launcher. When opened fully, it measured thirty inches long and looked similar to a shortened World War II bazooka.

After lunch, work details picked up spent brass shell casings from the ground, rebuilt the destroyed practice bunker, and cleaned the arsenal of fired weapons.

It was late in the evening when the last detail returned to the barracks.

On the fourth morning, John and Bill walked to the range with the rest of the class.

“What do you think they have in store for us today?” Bill asked.

“I don’t have a clue, but it does seem odd that we’re going without weapons.”

“It sure does,” Bill agreed.

Upon their arrival, the Cherries took a seat on the ground; this was now an automatic reflex and nobody hesitated or complained.

A large, black staff sergeant, who could pass for a professional football player, was their instructor for the day. He was holding a short rifle in one hand; wood covered most of the barrel and stock. A half circle, twelve-inch long black magazine protruded from the housing, an inch in front of the trigger guard. Perhaps it was possible for the shooter to hold on to the magazine and fire it like the Tommy Guns of old. Under the barrel, a pointed, two-foot long, finger-thick piece of silver metal lies horizontally, secured to the weapon by a hinge.