The World Played Chess (13)

Cruz also told me a supply helicopter brought news that President Johnson has put a halt to the bombing of targets north of the twentieth parallel, and they’re all pissed because they believe the bombing would have destroyed the NVA and the Viet Cong supply and escape routes. Meaning they might have gotten to go home.

“Morale right now is not good,” Cruz said. “So don’t come in here with a gung-ho GI Joe attitude.”

No problem there, Corporal.

Cruz advised that because of the moratorium, no marines at Firebase Phoenix are going outside the wire. He said President Johnson is trying to entice the north with not-so-confidential peace talks. He then cackled and said the whole thing is a joke, a publicity stunt to appease the protestors back home.

“Don’t worry about it though. I’ll make sure you get outside the wire and get your feet wet as soon as possible, so you’re not sitting around worrying about it.”

Again, don’t go to any trouble on my account, Corporal.

Cruz told me that up here in the triple canopy, we won’t be fighting the VC—the ragtag Viet Cong who do mostly hit-and-runs. Up here, along the Laotian border, we’ll get the NVA First Division, who Cruz described as determined and well trained. “They’ll hit us with ambushes that are sudden, violent, and deadly, and they will stand and fight. So will we.”

Well, shit.

“Stow your stuff and I’ll show you around the firebase.”

I grabbed my camera and headed out from the bunker with Cruz. Marines were playing guitars, getting stoned, and drinking beer. The military banned marijuana, but the sweet smell was everywhere. At first, everyone was leery of my camera, but after I explained I was a marine photographer, they let their guard down. Some even encouraged me to take their picture smoking weed and being out of uniform.

“What they gonna do, send me to the Nam?” was the common refrain.

Someone had cut a metal drum in half and they were using it to barbecue steaks, which Cruz explained were flown in that morning as a morale booster. The atmosphere was like a somber summer camp. We were all the same age and we were wearing the same clothes, though not in the same way. Some guys had cut the sleeves from their shirts. Others were shirtless. One guy was wearing shorts. We were just guys hanging out. No pretenses. No one trying to impress. Just being. Existing. After months of having every minute scheduled, just hanging out was a relief.

“Yeah, we’re grunts,” Cruz said, “but we take pride in being grunts. You dig?”

I nodded.

“Okay, first lesson. In my squad you do not talk about home when you’re in-country. You don’t even think about it. It’s bad luck. Comprende?”

“Comprende.”

“Second lesson. You don’t discuss how much time you have left in-country.”

“Okay,” I said and thought of the calendar my mother gave me to mark off the days until I returned home. I had put it on a nail in the post by my rack.

Cruz and I continued to wander, and he continued to educate. “Inside the wire it can be long hours doing nothing day after day. It becomes monotonous. You forget the day of the week and sometimes the month ’cause it don’t matter. You have nothing scheduled and nothing urgent to do. You start to think the only thing you’re going to die from over here is boredom. But don’t be fooled.” He used his cigarette to point to the hooches. “Look a little closer,” he said. “You notice anything?”

“They’re empty.”

“Damn straight. Officers use them during the day. Not at night.”

In between each hooch, there was a trench in the ground surrounded by sandbags. The bunkers. “No one sleeps above ground. You don’t tempt fate. Next lesson. Look at the perimeter.”

I looked to the thick green bush that surrounded the firebase in every direction, and I saw rolls of concertina wire.

“The wire and the claymores are to keep Charlie out,” Cruz said. “The trip flares on the wire are to let us know if Charlie decides to pay us a visit.”

“Does he?” I asked.

Cruz laughed. “First month here, Charlie was inside the wire the first night. The next day, after they flew out the dead, they couldn’t find where Charlie came through the wire. He didn’t trip no flares. He didn’t cut no wire. A mystery. A week later Charlie came again. More killed. This time they found a tunnel entrance, inside the wire.”

“He dug under?” I asked.

Cruz laughed and shook his head. “They built the damn firebase on top of a whole series of tunnels already here.”

We kept walking. I saw crude holes scratched into the red clay and rock, about two meters apart and reinforced with sandbags. Foxholes. One had a .50-caliber machine gun. Cruz saw me staring and grinned, though it wasn’t really a grin. It was just a small upturn at the corners of his mouth, like I amused him. I realized he was laughing at me, at my naivete. “You’ll learn, Shutter,” he said.

“Shutter? At Da Nang, combat photographers were called Shooter.”

Cruz laughed. “Hey, Bean,” he called out to a shirtless marine filling sandbags with dirt. “What do you say? Shutter or Shooter?”

Bean is a large Black guy I met in our bunker. He flicked the butt of his cigarette. “We had a photographer in camp about a month ago,” Bean said. “I didn’t see him do no shooting, Corporal Cruz. So I say Shutter.”