Body Count

by Dick Estel

(This short story was submitted for consideration in the James D. Phelan Awards in Literature and Art in 1970. Although it did not win an award, the director wrote: "You were one of the few applicants whose work was given serious consideration. The jury thought it showed exceptional value.")

To the colonels and generals who had planned the mission on their big wall maps in Saigon, Operation Long Dog was beautifully choreographed and brilliantly scripted. "Almost a ballet of war," one colonel had called it.

But to PFC Frank Erickson and the other men of Company B, 3rd Infantry, it was just another day, in an endless string of such days, when they would scramble out of a helicopter and probably get shot at.

As they waited for the helicopters which would carry them to the village of Dong Ngo, the men crouched, sat, or stretched out on the ground, trying to catch another few minutes of rest. Erickson sat with Thomas, another six-month veteran of Viet Nam, and McHenry, a new replacement facing his first combat action.

"That the straight stuff the lieutenant told us?" the new man asked. "That free strike zone stuff--shoot anything that moves?"

"That's right," said Thomas.

"You don't shoot women do you?"

Thomas did not answer. "Sometimes," Erickson said softly.

"Look," Thomas said, "some of the women are as dangerous as the men. Even if they don't carry a rifle, they know how to set booby traps."

McHenry examined his rifle. "Still seems like you'd feel kinda funny killing a woman."

Neither man answered for a moment. Then Thomas said, "Hey, Erickson, remember that one Salvino killed?"

Salvino was no longer with the outfit. He had been point man when the squad ran into a Viet Cong ambush.

"I remember," said Erickson.

"Well, she had a gun."

"It was slung on her shoulder. And she had two kids, too."

"Anyway," said Thomas, "the way she popped up out of that rice paddy--you can get killed real quick if you stop and think in a situation like that."

"What happened to the kids?" McHenry asked.

Thomas answered. "Sergeant Jones gathered them up and got them sent back to an orphanage in Saigon."

"Look," Erickson said, suddenly standing up. "We don't like killing anybody. But both times I know for sure I killed a guy, he would have killed me if I hadn't got him first. Thank God most of the time I can't tell if I'm hitting anyone or not." He adjusted his heavy pack. "But I'd kill a woman that was carrying a gun--if she took it off her shoulder." He wiped the sticky perspiration from his face with both hands. "Goddamn, it's hot."

"I thought you came from a hot place," Thomas said.

"The heat back home isn't sticky like this. It's a dry heat. That's what makes the cotton grow so good."

"You and your cotton! All you got to do is keep out of the way of bullets and mines and pungi sticks for six more months and you oughta be home just in time to miss the harvest."

"I'd pick it by hand if I could get out of here a day sooner."

"Amen," said Thomas. "'Operation Long Dog.' Who the hell thinks up these names, anyway?"

At the briefing earlier, Lt. Winston had explained that Operation Long Dog was part of a sweep through a larger area which U.S. forces were free to shell and bomb without clearance from native officials. It was the sort of region which the maps in Time Magazine described as "under Viet Cong influence."

"The village we're assigned to is right on the border of the zone," the lieutenant told the men, "so it's considered free strike too. But don't shoot unless you meet resistance. Be ready for anything--we don't know if Charlie's got wind of our visit or not. Any questions?"

Sergeant Jones stood up. "Sir, are we gonna hold this terrain, or do we just move in and move back out like always?"

"We're not going to hold it. But the VC won't be using it any more either. After we're through the engineers will be in with bulldozers to perform a little urban renewal."

"I'm damn glad to hear that," Jones commented afterward as he discussed the mission with the men in his squad. "We can go in and kill 500 of the bastards today, and there'll be 500 more in there tomorrow operating full blast."

"Well you know what the say," said a corporal. "It's bodies that count in this war."

Sergeant Jones allowed a half smile to come across his pugnacious face. "Then I should damn near get credit for winning the war single-handed. I've killed enough of these gooks."

Erickson and the other men started for the loading area then, as Lt. Winston approached the sergeant.

"No need to ask if your men are ready," the officer said.

Jones took pride in leading one of the best squads in the battalion. To compliments on his own ability as a soldier he always replied, "Well, after 27 months in this hell-hole you're either good or your're dead."

Now he said, "Well sir, we've got two new man, and the others are a little nervous about how they'll perform. But no man in my squad has ever turned tail yet."

"Good," said Winston. "I'm going to send your squad straight up the middle of the village. First and third squads will surround it, and I'll hold four in reserve at the LZ."

"We'll sure let 'em know that Sergeant Jones is on hand," the NCO said.

"After you've checked the village, we'll all move in and round everyone up. Oh--and we'll have a chopper fly over the village before you go in, warning the people to stay in their huts."

"Check. One thing sir--off the record--seeing as how the ultimate plan is to wipe this village off the map, we're pretty much gonna be in a position to shoot first and ask questions later, as I see it."

"Just don't do anything you might have to explain later."

"Don't worry sir. I never had a dead gook squeal on me yet."

Jones joined his men at the loading area. "Hey, Sarge," one of them asked, "how come no South Viet troops on this mission?"

"Cause you can't trust those slant-eyed bastards any more than the VC," the sergeant said. "When they're along, Charlie's always ready for us. If none of the ARVN's know about this mission, then maybe the Commies won't either."

As he spoke, they heard the angry drone of the helicopters approaching. When they landed, the man ran in groups to climb aboard, and soon they were in the air.

Sitting on the outside seat, next to the open door, Erickson gripped the ceiling strap tightly. Although he could see the other men's lips moving in shouted conversation, he could near no sound above the almost unbearable roar of the motor. The stinging blast of wind from the rotors and the forward motion of the craft was like a gale against his face.

He hated riding in helicopters, almost as much as he hated combat. It grated against him to be torn from the soil, to which he belonged. Below he could see fields and a few animals, and some natives who looked up suddenly when they heard the clatter of the helicopters. He thought of his own farm lands in California's hot central valley, and pictured the neat buildings he had helped his father build. Were these farmers here so much different from himself.? Why, them, destroy them and their works, their animals?

The pitch of the motor dropped, bringing him sharply from his brief reverie as the chopper started its descent. Well, I'm not a farmer now, he thought, I'm an American fighting man.

As the ship set down, the men hit the ground on the run, rifles ready. Most of them had made many such landings and been met with a barrage of bullets from a forwarned enemy. But today the security precautions had been effective, or there were no enemy troops around, for as the men ran for the nearest cover, they heard no sound but their own helicopters taking off.

The lieutenant stood up and looked around cautiously. "Looks clear," he said. "Move out!"

Sergeant Jones silently led his squad toward the village, visible through the trees a few hundred yards away. The other squads moved toward their positions. As they came close to the village, Jones halted and contacted the lieutenant by radio. They waited here a few minutes while the other squads moved through the jungle to surround the village, and then the lieutenant called in the loud speaker-equipped chopper which had remained hovering over the landing zone. The 'copter flew low over the village, squawking out its message in Vietnamese. "Attention! Attention! You are surrounded by soldiers of the Allied forces. Do not attempt to run or you will be shot as VC. Remain in your homes and await further instructions."

When the announcement brought no visible response from the village, Jones motioned his men forward, and they began walking down the main road.

"I hope we're not walking into an ambush," Erickson whispered.

"Let 'em try something," Jones said. "We'll level the village now and save the engineers the trouble."

Jones and Erickson walked unceremoniously into the first hut they came to. Inside, a woman stood beside a small table. She looked at them impassively. "Where's your husband?" Jones demanded. The woman said something in Vietnamese, which neither American could understand.

The sergeant grabbed her arm and shoved her down into a chair. "You stay here," he said.

They went outside, and with the other men continued to go from house to house. All the natives they encountered were either women, children or old men. "Ain't no doubt about this being a VC village," Jones said.

Suddenly rifle fire rang out and a private yelped in pain and fell to the ground. Jones' squad immediately began to return the fire as they scrambled for cover.

"It's coming from those trees over there!" someone shouted.

Jones called out, "Wilson! Erickson! See if you can move in and get some grenades on 'em. Come on men, give 'em plenty of cover!"

The rest of the men began to pour continuous fire toward the enemy riflemen, while Wilson and Erickson scurried between huts and bushes, firing their M-16's on automatic as they ran.

The shooting continued for another 60 seconds, and two more men were hit, then two explosions sounded in quick succession. There was a moment of silence, followed by more rifle fire from the VC position, then a burst of automatic fire from the far side of the huts where Wilson and Erickson had gone, and once again it was silent.

As Jones and the others eased forward, Erickson came around the huts prodding a young Vietnamese in black pajamas, who held his hands high over his head. "This one came out of the trees with his hands up," Erickson said. "The others are either dead or ran. But they killed Wilson."

Jones walked up to the prisoner. "How many men with you?" The VC, who was a full six inches shorter than the stocky sergeant, only shrugged. Jones slapped him across the face. This brought forth a stream of Vietnamese, which only angered the sergeant more. Suddenly he took his rifle from his shoulder and fired three shots into the prisoner, who slumped to the ground.

Jones looked around at his men, who stood silently.

"OK. Carter and Zabarski, go check out the VC dead and bring Wilson's body back here. Thomas, Erickson, we'll go check those huts over on the other side of those trees. You others, do what you can for the wounded, then go through the rest of these huts."

Thomas and Erickson started for the huts while Jones radioed a report to Lt. Winston.

"That goddamn bastard," Erickson muttered.

"We're along way from Geneva here," Thomas said.

"Someday he'll go too far."

The sergeant caught up with them as they made their way through a row of palm and banana trees toward a group of huts which lay about 200 yards from the main part of the village.

Cautiously they approached, then entered the first hut. An old man sat inside. "Check him out, Thomas," said the sergeant. "We'll go on."

The next two huts were empty. In the third crouched two women and a pretty teen-aged girl.

"Well, this looks interesting," the sergeant said. He grabbed the girl by the arm and pulled her up.

"Come on, Sarge," Erickson said. "We've got better things to do."

"You don't have to watch. Go on--search the rest of the huts."

Reluctantly, Erickson went out. Outside he stopped and wiped the sweat from his face. He checked the next two huts and found them empty. As he came out of the second one he saw the Vietnamese girl run out of her hut, with Jones behind her. Her shirt was nearly torn off. Then Jones caught her and threw her to the ground, and one of the women ran up and began beating the burly American with her fists. He knocked her to the ground with a sweep of his arm, then as she started to get up, raised his rifle and killed her with a single shot.

"Jones! No!" Erickson screamed, running toward the scene.

The second woman ran out of the hut, and the sergeant swung his rifle toward her, firing two shots which knocked her back through the doorway. Then he turned his attention to the girl, who was half sitting, half lying with her face in her hands. He crouched and began to tear at her pants.

Erickson had stopped 10 yards away. Now he slowly raised his rifle, then lowered it. Suddenly he pointed it toward the couple writhing on the ground, jerked back the trigger, and raked the weapon back and forth till it was empty.

Then he turned, and slumped against the wall of a hut, letting his weapon clatter to the ground.

Thomas came running from the other end of the street. He stopped and looked at the sergeant and the girl, lying dead together.

"I tried to stop him," Erickson said.

"Let's get him off her before the others come."

Together they heaved the dead bulk off the girl, and dragged her body into the bushes. Thomas had found a rifle hidden in the old man's hut, and he put this in the hands of one of the dead women.

"Better zip up his pants," he said.

They heard voices approaching, and the lieutenant and two soldiers came through the trees.

The officer looked at the fallen sergeant.

"Son of a bitch! That makes three the goddamn gooks killed." He picked up the dead man's rifle. "Erickson, you and Thomas check how many you killed here, and then bring Jones back to the LZ. The Colonel wants a body count right away."