Friendly Fire by Bryan C. D. B.;

Author:Bryan, C. D. B.;
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2016-02-23T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

For the rest of the day the Mullens’ kitchen became that jungle hilltop in Vietnam. The more Martin Culpepper spoke, the less he seemed aware of his surroundings. Culpepper wasn’t just talking about what had happened that terrible night; he was there. As Peg and Gene watched uneasily, Culpepper stormed about the table, hacking and chopping at the imagined dense jungle growth. The Mullens could only try to visualize what the young man still so clearly saw: helicopter swooping down for a combat assault, shark-faced Cobra gunships circling beyond their kitchen window, a white phosphorus artillery marking round exploding with a soft, plushy foop! above their stove. Flares popped high in the night sky illuminating the horribly wounded, who lay groaning and bleeding about the Mullens’ yard. Vietnam’s tight coil within Culpepper had not yet unwound.

The Mullens would, for the most part, wait patiently when Martin Culpepper’s narrative would begin to ramble. At other times when he wandered off on some unrelated tangent, they would interrupt, ask a specific question and gently nudge him back on course. Throughout it all Peg was taking notes.

“Did you know about the boy who went berserk?” Culpepper asked.

Gene looked at Peg, who shook her head.

“His name was Polk,” Culpepper said. “He was a black private in the First Platoon. He was asleep between Mike and Leroy Hamilton when they died. Polk wasn’t even touched. He went crazy that night.”

“What happened to him?” Peg asked.

“He’s in jail at Leavenworth,” Culpepper said. “He was court-martialed.”

“Polk, black private, went berserk,” Peg wrote in her notebook. “Court-martialed. Leavenworth.”

“Mike was always looking out for Polk,” Culpepper was saying. “Whenever Polk got in an argument, Mike would try to calm him down, say something like, ‘Man, you’re here. We’re all here. We can’t do anything about it.’ Mike and Sergeant Gregory would try to talk to him sensible. But the other guys in the First Platoon wouldn’t have much to do with Polk. They said he was a troublemaker.”

“Friend of Mike’s,” Peg added to her notes. And on the line below she wrote, “Sgt. Gregory, 1st Platoon.”

“We need names, Martin,” Gene said. “We want to know who was with our son.”

Peg’s list began to grow:

General Lloyd Ramsey, Commanding General. Americal Division

Colonel Joseph Clemons, 198th Infantry Brigade Commander

Lieutenant Colonel H. Norman Schwarzkopf, 1/6th Battalion Commander Captain

(—) Cameron, Company Commander, Charlie Company

Lieutenant (—) Rocamora (sp?), Forward Observer w/Charlie Co.

Lieutenant (—) Joslin, Platoon Leader, 1st Plt. Mike’s.

Sgt. Webb, 3rd Platoon, now in Des Moines.

Russell Schumacher, 3rd Plt. Still in Vietnam. Iowa boy.

Albert Gaynor, 3rd Plt. Back in States. Still in Army.

Abe Aikins, Black medic. Probably back in States.

Prince (nickname?), 1st Platoon. Wounded. Lost leg, maybe two.

Polk, Black Private, went berserk. Court-martialed. Leavenworth. Friend of Mike’s

Sgt. Gregory, 1st Platoon

“Did you know that our platoon and Mike’s platoon traded positions that night?” Culpepper asked. “We were originally supposed to set up on their side of the hill.”

“Whose decision was that?” Gene asked. “Schwarzkopf’s?”

“No, it was the lieutenant’s,” Culpepper said. He told them how the

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