Those that serve and those that wait

Those That Serve And Those That Wait

         In the dawn’s silence a mosquito buzzed, desperately searching for an exposed surface upon which to rest; a sleeveless arm, exposed neck or bare patch of cheek not yet covered with mud or camouflage grease. It weaved left and right, dodging blueberry sized droplets of water that collected in large leaves before falling to the canopy floor. Unsatisfied the insect flew on, passing seven wraithlike figures that stood, impassive, surveying the valley below them.          

Billows of mist formed in ragged patches, the rising sun warming the sodden ground. All remained quiet. A slight breeze stirred the grasses and small shrubs that dotted the field; long fronds swayed in rhythm, like the hands of revelers rocking back and forth to Give Peace a Chance at a John Lennon concert.

There would be no chance of peace today.

Seven heads turned in unison, expressions stern, eyes focused on the trenches that lined the eastern end of the valley; the jagged rows designed to make passage through the pass difficult for man or machine, whilst providing protection for those huddled within. Ant like figures had begun to stir. Men, outfitted in filthy green uniforms, formed rough lines, checked rifles, or affixed bayonets. All moved slowly, fatigue etched in every movement.

How many today? The seven shared the same thought, knowing the answer would become clear all too soon; the number too vast to contemplate. The unsaid reply, many, be ready brothers.

Sunlight peeked through the gap in the eastern hills; the spreading light striking the carcass of a bent and twisted Sikorsky S-55, casting shadows across the landscape, thin and spindly like an old man’s stretch. As the sun clawed its way upwards, there was movement at the western side of the valley. In a mirror image of the east, more men nervously prepared themselves, wedging helmets onto heads, lacing boots, double checking equipment, or shouldering rifles in readiness for the coming storm. A soldier, battle weary, uniform in tatters, wore a mud encrusted bandage around his head. Absently, he raised a hand to shield his remaining eye from the piercing sunlight.

A bugle broke the morning silence, the blast timed with the sunrise. Men poured from the eastern trenches, reminiscent of a swarm of migrating locusts, scuttling forward, heads hunched as they slipped and slid on the slick battlefield. Like a favorite vase smashing on a granite floor, the silence shattered. The air exploded into a cacophony of sound. Beneath the staccato crack of gunfire, men screamed; animal yells that masked fear, created dread in the enemy, or signaled the pain of the wounded and dying. From the surrounding canopy the raucous screech of howler monkeys echoed those from the field, the animals fleeing from the tree line, retreating to the depths of the thick jungle.

Clouds of cordite filled the air, stinging eyes and choking throats that already struggled to breathe though fear-constricted lungs.

High on the side of the valley, Major Thomas Kirkbride watched the third day of fighting unfold below him; both armies had fought bravely to secure Dien Bien Phu, a narrow valley that offered either side little strategic value. The fighting had been brutal, intense and casualties high. He glanced at the six that stood quietly by his side. Like him, all bore the wounds of battle, none remained unscathed. Kirkbride’s injuries were severe. Blood plastered his left shoulder and upper chest; the .33 round, whilst creating a small blackened hole on entry had caused immeasurable damage, shattering his shoulder blade, on exit. Mercifully the memory of the pain that had accompanied his injury had faded over the days that passed.

It has begun brothers, be ready.

In the field, a man fell, his body instantly shattered by an exploding grenade. Blood, flesh and equipment flew in all directions. The young Private slumped to the earth, shock plastered on his face, his arm clutched to his chest as it hung loosely on a thread of muscle. Unseeing, his eyes stared forward, the memory of home, family and wife fading as he exhaled his last breath.

Kirkbride heard no sound, but instinctively knew that the Private had joined them.

Welcome brother. Be at peace.

Others joined them; his small group multiplied as the battle intensified and the combatants dwindled. Each time, one of the seven would reach out and share a few thoughts of comfort. The fighting continued. Young men fell on either side; the two now groups embroiled in a hand to hand battle for supremacy, neither wishing to yield, each fighting to survive the day, another day.

Kirkbride stared across the valley. A Vietnamese general stood stoically watching the battle unfold. For three days the two men had faced each other, neither moving from their position above the field.

Studying his adversary, he thought back over the past few days. In the early stages of the battle, Kirkbride’s troops had been formidable, scything away at the enemy lines, inflicting horrendous injury and death upon their Vietnamese opposition. That first night, as his men retreated to their trenches, they had quietly celebrated a brief victory, convinced that in the morning they would rout the remaining soldiers and secure the western end of the valley. Their euphoria was short lived as the Vietnamese launched a viscous counterattack the following day.

Despite the distance the separated them, Kirkbride saw that the general’s injuries had been horrendous; the man balanced on one leg, the other a mass of blood and flesh, the trouser of his battle dress shredded, his shin and foot missing. The Vietnamese met Kirkbride’s gaze, a look of sorrow glued to his face.

Lined up behind him, the general’s group numbered over thirty souls. Thirty men. What a waste, Kirkbride thought. He’d counted forty eight yesterday and sixty one the day before. Was this thin piece of land worth the cost? He wondered. My own losses are no better. The thought of his enemy’s greater losses wasn’t comforting.

Another presence. Welcome brother. Be at peace.

Not for the first time, Major Thomas Kirkbride speculated at how fate had conveyed him to this point. An atheist, he always believed that death was final, that nothing followed. In fifteen years as a soldier he had witnessed too many deaths to believe that anything existed after the heart and brain ceased to work. It was hard to believe in the afterlife after seeing the light of life cease in the eyes of comrades and enemies alike.

Ever pragmatic, he knew this his legacy would survive only in the memories of his two daughters and wife back in Little Rock, Arkansas. Their grief would be softened through the cuddle of a favorite teddy bear or in his diminishing scent on a bedroom pillow. No doubt his image would remain in a six by four frame by the bed, kept clear of dust by his wife, but eventually laid face down on the bedside cabinet as her memory of him faded, or loneliness drove her to find another husband or lover.

He was no longer certain about the finality of death. Couldn’t be certain, could he, given his present situation? Nor was he sure that death was a release from the trials of one’s life.

Kirkbride had fallen on day two, a casualty of the day’s first wave of attacks. He’d always believed that leadership began from the front. Having grown through the ranks of service, Kirkbride had seen good leaders and always believed in those that could lead men by example. Through his own rise, he had taken on the same principles of leadership.

On the initial assault, sweaty, caked in clay and shaking with the same fear as his platoon, he threw himself over the trench wall and into no-man’s land. Filled with a combination of dread and morbid excitement, he charged across the uneven surface, yelling like a madman, his boots making sucking sounds as they pulled from the muddy ground. A sniper zeroed in on his charging form. He heard nothing.

The round hit him like a lineman sacking an unprotected quarterback, slammed him backward past his charging comrades. The hull of the Sikorsky halted his momentum. He slid to the ground, stunned and winded, a warm dampness spreading across his chest. Kirkbride struggled to orient himself. The pain in his chest grew and became unbearable. He knew was dying, could feel the life drain from him, ebbing in time with his loss of blood. His heart tired as it found less and less fluid to pump. His will to live gradually lessened, his eyes finally closing like steel shutters over a shop window.

From where he stood now, Major Thomas Kirkbride, United States Marine Corps, could see his bloated and decaying body, still pressed against the green-grey metal of the helicopter, rifle held across his waist, head slumped forward, chin resting in the thick mass of blood that coated his tunic. A cloud of flies constantly shifted around his body as soldiers charged past the body.

No longer of any value on the field of battle, he understood that he was still the platoon’s leader. But now his role had changed. His job now, and that of those that first fell with him, was clear. Theirs was to make the transition from life to death easier for their fallen comrades.

There are two types of soldier on the field of battle today, his spirit thought; those who serve and those who wait.

Thomas Kirkbride turned his gaze back to the battle and waited, ignoring the mosquito that buzzed by still searching for a place to rest. The creature flew on, unaffected by the spectral hand of a newly dead soldier that swatted at it.