Читать книгу Red Snow - Sean Ryan Stuart - Страница 9

Chapter 3 “Frisco” in My Dreams

As the night progressed, his dreams were becoming so realistic that he could almost swear he could feel San Francisco’s cold moisture wetting the back of his shirt. Jeremy awoke in his tent, high on a plateau in Afghanistan, only to find out that a sudden squall had ripped the top off his tent and the rain was pouring in. Jeremy jumped up, got his bearings and realized that he was still in Afghanistan, wet and miserable. Luckily he had a piece of waterproof canvass, and duct-tape and he was able to quickly repair the damage. He changed the position of his bed and within minutes was fast asleep and had resumed his dream.

There he was at the San Francisco airport hailing a cab. Jeremy was visibly upset, as he had heard so many nasty stories of war protesters, and there they were, blocking traffic, screaming and yelling obscenities at him, and all other military personnel coming home from Vietnam. His cab driver, a WW II Navy veteran was not intimidated by the angry crowd, and drove past them, mouthing obscenities at them as he drove through the crowd at a high rate of speed.

Jeremy had always been extremely patriotic. After all, this was his first tour, and he was shocked at the spectacle that greeted him in San Francisco upon his return home. He had grownup in an All-American tradition and could not believe the vile and hateful creatures that spat upon his uniform in San Francisco. Jeremy was so furious at these sub-humans, that he swore never to set foot again in the “City by the Bay.” These memorable events were causing him to stir restlessly on his sleeping bag. These incidents bothered him very much and he was unable to track his thoughts, either in his dreams or in his conscious moments. He drifted in and out of reality.

Although not all of his memories were fond ones, the city had a magical appeal and sparkle to it. Although his first impressions were negative ones, he still felt a strange attraction to San Francisco. The incredible sights and interesting landscapes attracted him to this unique city it was a city of mixed emotions, cultures and feelings; yet irresistible. Jeremy’s thoughts drifted to the bumpy cab ride on his rip to the Presidio of San Francisco. At the time it seemed like an oasis a warm and friendly “firebase,” where lonely soldiers could stop at the “O” Club (Officers Club) on the hill and consume “firewater” with the natives. He couldn’t help but fondly remember getting plastered at the Officers Club. Jeremy always felt secure among fellow soldiers, and these comforting thoughts were probably the catalyst of his current dreams.

It was here, in this friendly milieu that he first recited his verse to fellow officers. Here among fellow warriors, he was able to let down his guard, and just relax. General Mac Arthur once said, “Old soldiers never die, they just fade away.” In this environment, Grant’s soul opened up to his compatriots, and his poem on Vietnam just came shooting out of his mouth like a .50 caliber M-2 machine gun. At first they all stared at him not knowing what to say. Here among “old soldiers” Jeremy felt like “fading away.”

The entire bar became silent, as during the minute before an attack. Everyone listened closely, and they were so moved that many of them openly cried. Even a hardened USMC combat veteran, LT/Col Anthony “Glorious” Barnum, wept like a baby, and kept saying “Semper Fi, Mac.” Jeremy did not consider himself a poet, but the political upheaval and his experiences had inspired him to write his one and only poem. He always kept it in his wallet, and brought it out at appropriate times. This had been such an occasion.

LT/Col Barnum sat at the bar nursing a double rum and Coke. His eyes glazed, and his mouth was blabbering filthy obscenities at anyone within earshot. “Glorious” was a Marine Corps legend, his combat exploits were only surpassed by his John Wayne story. “Glorious” Barnum had the singular pleasure to have had his picture taken with the “Duke” in Vietnam. The “Duke” had visited Vietnam and posed with LT/Col Barnum. “Glorious” carried his tattered photo every where he went, and always relished the opportunity to show his well-worn photo, plus it also bought him a lot of free drinks.

Grant remembered the night at the Presidio and wished he could now be there drinking rum and Coke with “Glorious.” His thoughts wandered in and out of consciousness. He never quite knew whether he was dreaming or just wishing he was back in San Francisco. At times, both dreams merged into one confusing and terribly scary one. Jeremy was unable to differentiate between his Afghanistan experience and Vietnam. His thoughts and emotions flashed across the time spectrum at the speed of light. However, one thought kept appearing over and over, the words to his poem. Jeremy knew the effect that this poem had on him; it gave him strength, honor, determination and stamina to carry on his lonely battle against solitude and despair either in Afghanistan or Vietnam.

In his dream, he slowly regained consciousness, and began sobbing uncontrollably. The finality of his position gripped his heart, and he felt vulnerable and afraid. Yet, his subconscious kept sending out disjointed “Frag-Orders,” such as “don’t give in, keep it up,” repetition, SURVIVAL! Jeremy jerked his head up and began shouting silent screams.

Vietnam

Valiant are the few who fought and died,

Vanquished are the masses who fled and lied,

Victims are the mothers who stayed and cried,

Vanished are the many to whom we said good-bye,

Victory belongs to those who cared and tried,

Valor was common, but they still all died,

Vermin are those who crawled and cringed,

Verify, they cried! But, they never lied?

Vengeance some cried, but others were pacified,

Verdict we demanded, but now they are elected,

Vietnam, Vietminh, Vietcong, are still all wrong,

Valiant are the few who fought and died,

Victorious are we who cared and tried.

Jeremy’s current dream had, in fact, been a dream within a night-mare and he was back in Vietnam. His confused thoughts drifted between Vietnam and Afghanistan. Jeremy’s subconscious had taken over and he was back in his cell in Vietnam.

His hysterical outburst caught the prison guards by surprise, and they came running over to investigate. They had never seen the crazy American act in this fashion, and they were shocked by his screaming and ranting. The only word they could understand was Vietnam. He kept repeating these words over and over and over. They laughed at him and thought he had finally gone off the deep end. Jeremy continued in this manner for hours; until his voice finally gave out.

At times he too doubted his sanity. Pictures of Fort Bragg, ‘DG,’ San Francisco kept flashing in front of his eyes. These kaleidoscopic visions only seemed to confuse him. After a while, he then just sat in the corner of his cell, and whispered his poem over and over and over. His desperate outburst had somehow calmed him down. These desperate mental attempts at escape were possibly indicative of his current situation in Afghanistan. His vivid dream continued, and he now began recalling his escape from Vietnam.

Grant had patiently waited for his chance to escape. Early one morning, God granted him his wish, and the area erupted in a mass of flames and thunder. The entire horizon exploded into a mass of shaking, quivering earth. Mounds of earth, trees, bodies and huts were violently flung in the air. Jeremy had been sleeping, and he awoke believing he had died and was now on the threshold of hell. He was blinded by the intense heat, smoke and concussions of the explosions. He had no way of knowing that his camp had been targeted by highflying B-52 bombers. Each bomber carried up to seventy-thousand pounds of HE (High Explosive) bombs; destined to liberate or kill him. It seemed like the bombing lasted for hours, but in fact had only been for approximately nine minutes. These high-flying bombers had come all the way from either Udapao, Thailand or Guam. The first and second wave of B-52s had wiped out the entire camp and eight square miles of stinking Vietnam jungle. Human remains were scattered around gaping mounds of earth, up to fifty feet deep and one hundred feet across. The entire area was covered with a thick veil of smoke and many trees were still burning. Heavily forested jungles were turned into a burning inferno. The whole area took on a lunar-like landscape. The violence and suddenness of the attack had caught the VC by surprise. Even the survivors were so shocked by the attack that they aimlessly wandered throughout the area, not knowing what had happened.

They were still licking their wounds when Grant managed to escape. The entire camp, along with its supporting bunkers, tunnels and buildings, was completely destroyed. Jeremy was slowly able to regain his sanity and analyzed his situation. The walls to his cage were completely blown away and the devastation was complete. Jeremy knew that he would need a few things if he expected to survive in the jungle. He glanced around and saw that the kitchen hut was on fire, but still standing. Jeremy ran over and poked around the ashes. He was able to find a partially cooked piglet, some rice and two canteens of water. Eureka! he thought, I’ll be able to last two weeks with all this food. His thoughts now drifted to searching for a weapon. None was around, but he spotted an old machete lying under a burning mound of earth a few feet away. Jeremy walked over and started to pull on the machete, only to realize that the burning mound of earth had once been a human being. Jeremy gingerly removed the machete from the burning corpse and ran toward the nearest jungle. On his way out of the camp, Grant spotted Major Dong staggering around, half covered in dirt and completely dazed. Grant walked up to Dong,

“We meet again, Major Dong,” Jeremy shouted.

His hearing gone and severely stunned, the little major looked up slowly and tried to focus his eyes on the giant standing over him. Jeremy glanced down at the once feared little major and laughed. The flames had completely burned away most of his clothes and Jeremy saw the evidence of Major Dong’s hatred for the French Foreign Legion. His manhood had been severed, and in its place a small scarred stump remained. Jeremy felt no compassion or mercy for this little snake, because he knew that Major Dong was capable of similar acts. In fact, the little major had performed them on many of his colleagues, and unlucky Legionnaires.

“Who are you? Speak up, I can’t hear you!” shouted Dong.

“It doesn’t really matter, you worm, I am going to slowly squeeze the life out of you,” whispered Grant.

Grant leaned over Dong, reached out and with his right arm, gradually squeezed Dong’s scrawny throat until all signs of life wheezed out of his lungs. Grant had gotten his wish, he had managed to kill Major Dong with his one good hand, and had been thrilled at the sight of the little worm gasping for breath. Jeremy also took this opportunity to take Major Dong’s AK-47 assault-rifle, ammo pouches and another canteen. Grant knew that his chances for survival were almost non-existent, but he was convinced that he would rather die in the jungle than in that stinking POW camp. Jeremy left the area as soon as possible and headed in a southeasterly direction. He realized his only hope for survival was to travel at night and lie low during daylight hours. However, today he had to put as much distance between the camp and himself as possible. Jeremy was positive it would take them at least two hours before they realized he was gone, or had any resources to send after him. This was his only advantage and he was determined to get away. Jeremy found a small stream and followed it southward for about two hours. He then felt confident enough to travel inland and resume his southeasterly course. Darkness was slowly beginning to fall and Jeremy knew that he had to find a spot away from prying eyes. He continued down a well-worn trail, figuring his signs would blend in with the many others tracks, until he found an ideal hiding spot. Before him, loomed a giant tree; its roots and base were at least twenty feet in diameter. It was leaning against a large rocky outcropping which was part of a very steep hill. Halfway up the tree, about fifty feet above ground level, there appeared to be a small opening in the hillside. It was only accessible from the tree and it was barely visible, unless one stood directly under the tree and looked up in that direction. Grant gathered his belongings into a bundle, slung them over his back and did his best imitation of Cheetah, the movie chimpanzee.

The large tree had many handholds and small hanging vines. Jeremy was able to climb up the tree with relative ease until he reached the cave entrance level. The opening appeared to be large enough for a man, but not much else. Jeremy crawled across a branch and pushed aside some heavy brush and wriggled his way into the cave. Well actually, “cave” was a misnomer, hole would be more appropriate. Grant immediately noticed a rather strong odor emanating from the hole. If he didn’t know any better, he could have sworn that it smelled like a cat’s litter box, but he didn’t know of any domesticated cats living up a tree in a hole in Vietnam. Anyway, he was so damn tired and hungry he didn’t really care if he shared a hole with a cat or not. Jeremy packed all of his belongings at the front of the hole and covered them with nearby bushes. He promptly fell into a long and almost comatose sleep. He had been so tired that he had forgotten to eat and drink. His restless sleep had eventually been interrupted by a loud and gnawing rumble coming from his stomach. Jeremy opened his eyes and quickly tried to raise himself. Forgetting where he was, he hit his forehead hard enough on the ceiling to draw blood.

“Oh, shit! Oh, shit!” He exclaimed, blood streaming from his face.

A loud, piercing, blood-curdling scream came from the back of the cave, and Jeremy froze in fear. He had no idea what type of animal or thing had suddenly screamed, but it sounded very close and annoyed. He suddenly noticed a large pool of warm and wet liquid oozing from his crotch. He had pissed on himself! Oh, great, he thought, I have to take control of the situation, now! Another, equally frightening scream, pierced the evening calm. Jeremy slowly regained his composure and realized that whatever was in the cave with him couldn’t be very big. Just then, a blinding pain reminded him that this creature could be small in stature, but extremely vicious. Jeremy’s anguished yell was as loud and startling as the creature’s. Enough is enough, Jeremy thought, I have to kill whatever that thing is, now!

Grant rolled over on his side, grabbed the old machete, and tried to slash at the darkness beyond his feet. His pathetic attempts only angered the animal and it continued to bite and scratch his foot. The animal screamed hysterically and only appeared to be getting angrier. Jeremy finally managed to drag his leg outside the small hole and turn around head first. He grabbed the machete in the right hand and slowly crawled back in the hole; his right arm making a ninety-degree sweep as he moved forward. The animal suddenly grew quiet, and Jeremy was petrified it would make a mad dash for freedom. Just then, he could feel the machete strike something fleshy and bony. The machete had struck something and was now imbedded in the animal. Jeremy yanked with all his might and managed to pull the weapon free. An audible hiss was heard and the unmistakable smell of blood was present. Jeremy knew that he had killed his adversary, but was still too scared to reach in the darkness and pull out the corpse. Oh, well, he thought, I’ll just wait until daylight. The rest of the night was spent in a semi-conscious state, not trusting himself to fall asleep completely.

The noise of someone walking on the trail had him instantly alert and ready for action. He slowly raised his AK-47 and pointed it down the trail, instantly forgetting about the dead animal in the cave. Jeremy spotted what appeared to be a squad of Vietcong heavily burdened with weapons, mortars, supplies, etc. They did not appear to be looking for him, but in fact were part of a supply column marching through the area. He quickly realized that his cave was in the middle of a major Vietcong re-supply route and he would have to move when it got dark. His thoughts once again turned to the un-welcomed visitor at the end of the cave. He carefully turned around, making sure not to expose any parts of his body, and reached down toward the back of cave. After a few tentative sweeps of the hand, his right index finger felt a soft and furry animal. He gingerly grasped what fur was available and pulled it forward. The animal had already begun to stiffen and smell. After what seemed like an hour, he managed to drag the carcass past the rest of his body, he discovered that his vicious enemy had been a small monkey. However, this small monkey had created more fear and horror than anything the now departed Major Dong ever did. One good thing the dead monkey had done was to add a substantial amount of red meat to Jeremy’s diet for the next two days.

Grant continued to wander around the jungle for seven days, day and night blending into a green hell of musty smells, foul water and strange and eerie noises. CPT Grant had completely lost all track of time and motion. His water and food long since exhausted, he continued going southeast. Although he had never used any drugs, he perceived his current dilemma as bad as a bad LSD trip.

Jeremy had almost given up all hope when he heard the sweetest music in the world, the heavy “whirl-whirl/chop/chop” of a helicopter. Jeremy tried to concentrate on the sound and run toward it. He frantically thought of ways to attract the chopper. Grant ran toward a clearing and energetically waved his black pajama top in the hope of being seen. The American U.S.A.F. HH-53B Jolly Green Giant helicopter (a U.S. Air Force Rescue Helicopter) slowly cruised the area and attempted to pick up an emergency frequency signal from another downed pilot. Grant’s rescue had been miraculous. He had, in fact, been on the verge of dying from exposure, malnutrition and the ravages of fever.

The PJ (Air Force Para-Rescuemen) had been looking for another downed pilot, when he glanced downward and saw this strange looking individual waving a ragged black pajama top at him. The PJ immediately knew that it had to be an American, because he had never seen a six-foot-five VC before. The second PJ nervously scanned the thick foliage for any sign of the enemy, his Gatling gun sweeping the area in anxious anticipation of combat. The crew chief, Tsgt Ray B. Stone, manned the other gun, and kept whispering, “Hurry up, hurry up, I got a bad feeling.”

One of the PJ’s, SGT. Anthony “Tony” De Grazia, shouted to the pilot, “CPT Brown, at three o’clock, there is a guy waving at me, come around, come around now!”

CPT Brown brought his aircraft around and also spotted the ragged looking individual. CPT Brown, a cagey Vietnam veteran, was concerned about the sudden appearance of this ghost-like creature in the middle of the clearing. Suspecting a Vietcong trap, CPT Brown picked up his radio transmitter and depressed the talk key.

“Bird Dog 1, this is Spooky 7, over.”

“Spooky 7, this Bird Dog Leader, what can I do for you?” The voice was heavily accented in a deep southern Texas drawl.

“Bird Dog Leader, we are going in on an attempt pick-up however, I feel real hinky and I suspect a trap, can you provide some cover?”

“No problema, amigo, that’s Spanish for friend, you understand. We are six-clicks (kilometers) north of Elephant Valley, near the river, and we will be there in about four mikes (minutes),” answered Major Sam Houston Dennis, the flight leader and detachment commander of the 50th TFW (Tactical Fighter Wing) out of Da Nang.

“Bird Dog Leader to all my puppies, follow me, we got a mission just south of here.” Major Dennis shoved his stick to the firewall and kicked in his afterburners. The F-4 Phantom screamed and trembled as the afterburners shot it forward at more than Mach 1. The three other planes in his flight followed right behind him, like a pack of hunting dogs following a raccoon scent.

Three minutes and forty seconds later, Major Dennis spotted the slow-flying HH-53B. Bird Dog Leader buzzed the Jolly Green Giant to let CPT Brown know that the hound dogs were around. CPT Brown sighed a breath of relief and called SGT De Grazia on the intercom.

“Tony, you be careful out there. Any sign of trouble, shoot first and we’ll Didi Mao (Vietnamese GI slang for scram) out of here,” CPT Brown yelled in the microphone.

“Bird Dog Leader, from Spooky 7, my PJ is going in on the penetrator, keep your eyes open, over.” CPT Brown said, hoping and praying that they would not be needed.

SGT De Grazia nervously scanned the area, but not seeing any obvious enemy signs, he slowly lowered himself down the winch. Tsgt Byron, the crew chief, provided cover with the mini-gun. SGT De Grazia nervously covered the area with his M-16. The tall, but scraggly looking man staggered toward him. Although Tony recognized the tall apparition as a Caucasian white male, the tall man had somehow picked up a greenish tint to his skin and was covered with open sores.

Slipping as he walked, Jeremy made slow progress toward the nervous SGT De Grazia. Every step seemed to take an eternity. He noticed the nervousness in the young airman’s eyes and tried to smile at him. However, his lips were so parched that it only caused him pain, and he frowned instead. He eventually reached Tony and stammered.

“Thank God! Thank God!” Jeremy’s voice cracking with joy.

“Who are you?” Screamed De Grazia.

“CPT Grant, CPT Grant, US Army, Special Forces, I was captured over three months ago, and just recently escaped.”

“Well, welcome aboard, you are a lucky man, we were looking for someone else and just stumbled into you.” SGT De Grazia clipped his microphone and informed CPT Brown of his rescue. SGT De Grazia secured Jeremy to the metal penetrator and yelled in the mike, “Get us out of here, pronto.”

“CPT Brown get, us up, and the hell away from here.”

Just as the aircraft began its slow upward flight, the surrounding jungle erupted in a staccato of small arms and machine-gun fire. Clearly visible green tracers curved slowly upward towards the slow-moving aircraft. The speed of the bullets seemed to increase as they got closer to the aircraft. Hidden Vietcong positions opened up with everything they had. Jeremy had somehow managed to walk into a Vietcong battalion headquarters and not be observed until the helicopter circled the area. The VC commander decided to spring the trap at the moment of the rescue. However, he did not count on the four Phantoms.

CPT Brown pushed his stick to starboard, and raced for Da Nang. It seemed that his helicopter was being pelted by a huge storm of marbles and angry giant wasps. Round after round hit the sturdy Jolly Green Giant, but CPT Brown managed to keep her flying toward Da Nang. Just as it seemed they were going to get away without even a single casualty, several 12.3 mm heavy machine-gun rounds hit the aircraft. The aircraft seem to shudder in mid-air and a small fire started in one of the auxiliary generators. Tony was able to put out the fire and CPT Brown was able to keep the aircraft flying. However, the first round struck the crew chief, Tsgt James O. Byron, in the chest.

The round made a gaping four-inch exit hole in his back, and Tsgt Byron dropped to the floor without even uttering a single groan or word. Jeremy and SGT De Grazia stared in horror as the rounds continued hitting the aircraft. How ironic Jeremy thought, I am going to die in this copter after being saved by them. Just then, the aircraft began stuttering again and blowing dark and oily smoke all over the sky. It seemed that they were going to crash. Jeremy hung on to the nearest hand hold and began saying a “Hail Mary” to himself.

CPT Brown struggled and somehow managed to regain control of the aircraft and slowly nursed it back to Da Nang, his aircraft trailing and belching smoke the whole way. The numerous large holes in the fuselage made such a racket that both Jeremy and the rest of the remaining crew had to hold their hands over their ears. Jeremy was amazed that any aircraft could still fly after such a beating. Some of the holes in the fuselage were as large as a dinner plate, but somehow the amazing flying skills of CPT Brown kept them flying. Jeremy made a mental note to himself to buy the whole crew several drinks at the club, if they ever got back.

As a parting gesture to the still hidden Vietcong positions, CPT Brown did manage to vector the F-4’s into the area and they smothered the entire jungle canopy with napalm, Willie Petes (white phosphorous) and cannon fire. As the helicopter slowly pulled away from the area, a fiery greasy hell was observed by all who had participated in the rescue. As quickly as it had started, an eerie silence covered the battlefield. Where once an entire battalion of the enemy had lived, now there was nothing but charred remains and stench.

CPT Brown had sent a message asking that a second-53B be sent to the general area to search for the original pilot they had been looking for. CPT Brown was now convinced that no living thing could have survived that inferno, and he called to thank Major Dennis.

“Bird Dog Leader, this is Spooky 7, thanks for the assist, it was hot and heavy down there, old buddy.”

“Hey, Spooky 7, anytime. If you want me and my boys to barbecue anymore chili for you, just give me the word, hombre,” Major Dennis answered with his now recognizable twang. Just to make sure that you get home all right, me and my puppies will escort you, amigo!

“Hey Bird Dog Leader, this is Spooky 7, thanks a lot and muchas gracias to “you all.” We sure can use an escort home,” replied CPT Brown, his voice breaking with emotion.

Upon landing at Da Nang, the crew examined the aircraft and counted over seventy-eight holes in the HH-53B. SGT De Grazia was so impressed with the sturdiness of this helicopter that he decided right then and there to write a testimonial to the manufacturer and thank them for their quality construction.

Grant was gingerly carried from the aircraft by a team of caring nurses. He was transported to the base hospital at Da Nang for treatment, prior to stateside evacuation. The corpse of Tsgt Byron was also removed from the helicopter and transported to the morgue, where it would remain until transportation could be arranged for the remains to be shipped back to the U.S.A. The grisly reality of war hit Jeremy right between his eyes. How unfair, he thought, this poor man died trying to save my life. Grant decided to write a thank-you letter to the family of Tsgt Byron.

The physical carnage had been too much for Jeremy’s system. He was examined, probed and prodded for seven days prior to being returned to California. It would take nearly four months to recover from his wounds and tropical parasites he had picked up in the jungles of Vietnam. His entire body had a strange green tinge to it. He had quarter size, puss-infected sores throughout most of his body. His right shoulder had been partially dislocated by Major Dong and Jeremy suffered from malaria, amebic dysentery and a number of other jungle diseases. Jeremy was amazed that his body could even function after such punishment.

All of these dreams about Vietnam, and San Francisco reinforced his longing for a quieter life. He could not get his mind off San Francisco and Loretta, his one true love. Just when Jeremy began to doze off again, Khalil came to his tent and woke him up.

“Hey Jeremy! What is wrong with you? Are you okay?” asked Khalil, the leader of all mujahidin forces in this neighborhood.

“My men tell me that you have been screaming and talking all night.” Are you having flashbacks?” asked a concerned Khalil.

“Yes, you might say that. I am having a dream within a dream, and I am having a difficult time focusing on reality. Thank you for your concern, Khalil,” replied a now awake Jeremy Grant.

“Well, maybe you should tell me what happened from the point I awakened you. It might relieve the pressure on your brain,” smiled a gracious Khalil.

“Okay, why don’t you come in and share some coffee with me, and I’ll try to explain what was causing all those dreams.”

Both men sat down, and Jeremy began recounting his San Francisco experience.