The Hong Pocket

February 3rd, 1968

Hong Ngu

The Press back home screams about the Tet attacks. How we’ve lost the hearts of the people. How more war seems hopeless.

But when have war and hope ever shared a room?

Let the draft dodgers and upper crust cry themselves to sleep. Let them pretend to care about the boys carted off to the dead-end street. The Nam. The World sheds croc tears. Those croc tears are as useful as a bucketful of corn husks to the boys out here. Only sweat wets these eyes.

Maybe someday there’ll be a pause. The VC won’t haunt the shadows anymore. Then we can mourn. For now, every man has a job to do.

Out here, near the Mekong, they say all’s calm. The Cong slept through the go order when Tet started, apparently.

Or so jokes that ARVN Major. We all know better than to trust the ARVN. Why are ARVN weapons so clean? Because they’ve never been used and only dropped once.

Even so, Headquarters put Major Nguyen and the 10th ARVN Rangers on our left flank. Supposedly the Rangers are a real crack force, far above the usual cannon fodder. We’ll see about that.

They’ve made these guys the anchor of what they call the Hong Pocket. Command speaks of a whole VC assault force we’ve got penned. Several platoons’ worth of Cong.

Now we all hold our breaths. Only allowed to exhale when Command taps the unlucky bastards who have to charge through the wetlands after them.

Thank God for my extra socks. That swamp beyond our hole gotta be knee-deep. Gonna be hard to hug the ground when the shots start up. Saved from a bullet by a permanent bath.

~~~

February 4th, 1968

The axe fell on some other poor bastards. 1st Cav got the short end.

That means our squad gets to bake under the sun on watch, but that beats a slog through the marsh and a bullet to the back any day of the week plus Sunday.

However, seems we may have done 1st Cav’s job for them when shapes appear at the edge of the tall grass. Travesky drops a couple of them rather than waste seconds to warn us.

But rather than shoot, the marauders show empty hands and drop to the ground.

Sarge shouts for us to hold. The pause lets us get a better look at them.

Good gear. Clear control among the ranks.

These aren’t VC. They’re goddamn NVA.

Why are they so far south?

And why surrender en masse? These guys go to the last man.

The pat on the back Sarge got for the capture of several dozen POWs can be heard all the way from base camp. But the morale boost from such a score fades as the rumors start among the ranks.

Major Nguyen helped translate for the Army spooks, and what these NVA had to say turned heads.

They had come so far south to locate a VC command last heard from just before Tet. Usually a loss of contact meant we had fleshed the Cong out and blasted them to the sweet hereafter.

But here they found another cause. Major Nguyen says there’s no exact word.

Closest he could translate, “unnatural ones” had destroyed the Cong force.

Only God knows what that means. But as the sun sets, we’ll be sharper on watch. That’s for sure.

~~~

February 5th, 1968

No one sleeps much as thoughts turn to what the NVA saw that had made them run. Made them desperate enough to throw down arms and surrender to U.S. troopers. The sworn enemy.

At dawn, the squad gets an answer.

Out of the swamp, another shape ambles forward. Nobody shoots after our last encounter. Why drop another poor bastard two seconds from surrender?

What confronts us hasn’t come to surrender.

The fucker looks half dead already.

Then the rot crawls up our noses. All our eyes bug out as one.

The fucker’s half dead.

M16s do nada to halt the shuffle.

The squad’s M60 barks out, but that only slows the bastard a pace.

A 40mm grenade has greater effect on the enemy’s advance. Hard to walk when you lose your legs, after all.

That leaves the fucker two arms, though.

A round to the dome from my own 16 breaks contact once and for all.

Sarge gets on the command net and reports the engagement. Pretty paltry body count versus what the brass are used to, but apparently the report turns heads.

The Army spooks come fully geared up: masks, gloves, and yards of rubber. They took the remnants of what we call the “prowler.” Even the severed legs.

Bet a C pack Sarge won’t have to check that we’re awake on guard duty for the next week.

~~~

February 6th, 1968

My wager panned out. Nobody slept.

But for all our alertness, no more prowlers crawled from the swamp.

Even so, the buzz of the Hueys kept us company all through the darkness. That and the sounds of the rockets.

Hour after hour, the Hueys let salvo after salvo loose on whatever they found among the reeds.

The squad was left to wonder: was that because the Warrants had so much fun at the controls?

Or because they had found so many targets?

And why were the blasts closer on the next run?

~~~

February 7th, 1968

Awoke to far-off gunshots.

Gunshots from the rear of our post.

Sarge kept up the calls over the command net, but the freq stayed empty.

Eventually we spotted movement from the left. Too human to be a prowler. But not Army troopers.

Major Nguyen and a haggard group of ARVN Rangers had attempted to shore up the base camp defenses.

When they saw the CP overrun, they changed to rescue. But only prowlers moved among the destroyed tents and burned trucks by then.

Major Nguyen and the Ranger force had lost many troopers to learn that.

The Rangers say they saw the prowlers eat some of our own men. Others wore Army green.

Now U.S. and ARVN troopers share foxholes, rounds chambered and ready.

Forget what any of us thought about the ARVN. These guys got more brass balls than anyone on the Mekong for what they saw. And fought.

But, deep down, we all know that balls won’t be enough when the dead get up and chase you.

My foxhole mate Sanchez knows the score. When he heard the plan, he just nodded.

We go to the last bullet.

But save one grenade.