Reluctant Warrior: A Marine's True Story of Duty and Heroism in Vietnam by Hodgins Michael

Author:Hodgins, Michael
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2010-12-28T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SIX

VALHALLA

12 APRIL-10 MAY 1970

The courage we desire and prize is not the courage to

die decently, but to live manfully.

Thomas Carlyle (1795–1881)

We made the short flight back to HLZ 401 without further incident, too spent to take notice of our surroundings. Fatigue set in, an involuntary response to stress which overcame us once the threat had passed. Eyes closed, we sagged against the nylon webbing of our seats while the aircraft rattled through the sky toward Camp Reasoner. When the CH-46 finally flared onto the Recon helipad, the hard landing jolted us all from our reveries. Turf Club scrambled erect. Momentarily confused and disoriented, we grappled with our gear like zombies, struggling to fit the cumbersome loads to our bodies once more. The helicopter crew chief let down the tail ramp of his aircraft, and we stumbled, single file, onto the tarmac, home safe.

The sun was low in the sky, casting shadows across the asphalt. Shielding my eyes against the glare, I searched for Baker in the throng. He was not there. Another group of Marines separated themselves from the gaggle in the shade and jogged toward our helicopter. I recognized the gangling form of Charlie Kershaw in the group, as well as several other members of the Mission Impossible team. They lunged aboard the aircraft while we straggled toward the debriefing hootch. Once inside, we dropped our war gear on the deck and slouched into makeshift chairs. Couture made straight for the refrigerator and returned with cold beer, underhanding them in turn to each of the team members, Sergeant Thi included. We opened them with John Waynes, spraying cold brew across our brows with élan. Outside, we heard helicopters winding up for yet another flight. Something was amiss, but I was too tired to speculate. Inured to the perils of “tag-team warfare,” Turf Club paid no attention. They had done their bit. It was someone else’s turn in the ring.

“Lieutenant!” Couture spoke in a commanding voice, attracting the attention of everyone in the hootch. He raised his beer, gesturing in my direction. “Semper fi, sir!”

He grinned and tossed off a huge gulp. I matched his gesture, saying nothing, as did the others. We sat down to commence our debriefing, the moment of truth. A gunnery sergeant (E-7) emerged from a group of clerks gaggled around the situation map. He was the most senior individual in the room, aside from myself. There was no sign of the Stump, or anyone else from Charlie Company. Our escapade appeared to have gone unnoticed, even by our closest associates. I noted the fact, and an accompanying observation that the gunny appeared intent upon debriefing Couture, not me. The others sat slack in their chairs, enjoying their beer and the attention of their peers. Firefights and ladder extracts were the stuff of legends. No one really wanted to do it, but everyone wanted to say they had. Turf Club had. They were made men in the eyes of their peers, “Warriors.”

“Say, Couture. You guys ready to spill your guts?” He laughed and sat down at a field desk.

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