Uninvited Guests: Part 2

They say time sure flies when you’re having fun. No one ever really talks about how it moves when you’re not.

The landing hadn’t cost me anything a few beers and a good nose-picking wouldn’t cure. Now that the easy part was behind me, I dug out my compass and gathered my bearings. The acacia I’d stared at after landing guided me toward the airfield, while light in the distance suggested where Panama City was.

Not quite the triple canopy that most picture when thinking of a jungle area, I was in a small clearing. Many plots of trees had grown randomly above abundant brush, stands of palm, and the ever-present elephant grass. Most towered above me, but the night sky was visible in patches.

Despite the fact that I was involved in a full-scale invasion, that small-arms fire and explosions seemed ceaseless in the distance, and that I could hear the wind passing through the elephant grass and trees, it was eerily quiet around me. I loaded a bullet into the chamber of my 9 mm carefully, aware of the way sound seemed to be carrying; I guided the slide forward to keep quiet. Going forward at a crouch, I lead with the barrel. With each step, leaves on eight-foot stalks of grass gripped my uniform, bending and twisting with my movements. When they released, it sounded to me like ripping paper in an empty room.

About a minute into the grass, I could make out the top of the airfield fence line silhouetted against moonlight. In places, trails cut through the grass, paralleling the fence. I followed them briefly, looking for smaller trails. When found, I’d disappear again. A breeze still kicked through the plant life, making little steps here, a whisper there. It was the metallic scratching of chain links that got my attention.

As I approached the low grass bordering the fence, I slowed, took care to make no noise that I could control. Peeking toward the source of what was now a rattle, I braced myself. My trigger finger had already taken up the slack; it rested a hair’s breadth away from the hammer fall.

About a foot off the ground, a soldier hung from the fence, facing away from me. He would have been lying on the ground, other side of the fence, had the concertina wire atop the fence not caught the lines from his chute and his ruck, which was on my side. I aimed at his the center of his back. “Don’t fucking move.” I said. He jerked to a stop. “Manifold,” I said, improperly offering the challenge.

He hesitated a second, “Who goes there?”

“Davidson,” I said, “I’m going to fucking shoot you. Manifold….”

Jerking a little, he almost shouted his response, “floodlight.” I think the stress of the moment had fogged his head, and he’d been buying time to remember the password. He’d almost paid a price he couldn’t afford, but at his response, I crept forward.

“What the fuck have you gotten into?” I asked.

He didn’t know. He’d spent his time since landing trying to figure a way out of it. His rucksack had come down outside the fence, and his lowering line—the strap from which the aforesaid hangs for landing—had caught the razor wire. His parachute had drifted back into the fence when he’d released his riser. He was just hanging there, one big target.

“Cut my lowering line, will ya?” he said. As I reached for my bayonet, grass rustled behind me. Whirling to plant myself prone behind the soldier’s wayward rucksack, a figure appeared from the grass ten feet away.

“Halt,” I said. This time, it was me who almost shouted. “Who goes there?”

The man in front of me was wearing a helmet I’d not seen before and carrying a grease gun, which looked a lot like something German troops carried in WWII. Still partially concealed by the elephant grass, I couldn’t make his outline perfectly, so I aimed for what seemed like it would be center mass.

“Rodriguez,” came the reply. With his response, he’d shifted slightly. I had a clear shot at his chest. His name suggested that he might be a local, but the lack of an accent encouraged me.

“Manifold,” I said, half expecting sudden movement. As he hesitated, I pulled the slack out of the trigger, preparing to fire. Behind me, I heard the bolt from an M-16 push a round into the chamber. It seems dude had managed to free himself and finish removing his rifle from its case, fear, apparently, becoming quite the motivator.

“Floodlight,” Rodriguez responded. Normally, I’d have told him to advance, but the odd weapon and different shape of his helmet had me in quandary.

Then, from behind me, the other soldier growled, “What fucking unit are you with, asshole?” Rodriguez spat out a collection of numbers describing his unit, and when we didn’t respond right away, he continued “3rd of 73rd, I’m a tanker, drive a Sheridan.”

We called him forward. Turns out, he had already donned the helmet he wears in the tank, expecting to find his vehicle before he found random Joes hanging out by the fence. His Kevlar helmet hanged from the back of his rucksack (We both recommended he put it back on). We pulled the fence up—rather than cutting it—to crawl under, and with the hanging guy leading the way and Rodriguez pulling rear guard, we resumed our course.

A few minutes back into the elephant grass, hanging dude put up his hand, stopping both of us. We dropped to our knees instinctively, hearing whispering from ahead. A second later, a black captain, standing six-feet-and-change tall, walked back and surveyed the two of us. He wasn’t carrying a weapon.

At first, I assumed that it had somehow been lost during the drop, but as I looked, I discredited that assumption. He wore almost no camouflage paint, didn’t even have a sidearm that I could see, and his rucksack was too small and dainty to be carrying a combat load (I later asked: he was from division headquarters and had found his way onto the jump by bumping someone who had actually served a purpose on the ground. We would learn, after counting several members of our company as missing in action, that a large collection of paper pushers had done the same so they could get combat jump stars. Rumor has it that they were severely punished and subsequently denied the gold star.).

So the captain fell in with us, walking upright. Quickly, I slowed and waved him up to me. “Sir, you can’t walk upright,” I said. “You make a big target, and any little brown guys hanging out in the grass might see your helmet.” He didn’t listen until, a moment later, I heard Rodriguez say something similar in a much harsher tone, and I clearly heard: “If someone pops you a new asshole in the forehead, we’ll leave your stupid ass here.” It was like a deal had been struck, and Capt. Pogue understood: We won’t tell you how to drive your desk, and you don’t argue when Rodriguez tells you how to unfuck yourself.

Not five minutes later, we arrived at the edge of the runway we were supposed to have landed on. Hanging guy pulled out his night vision, got his bearings and passed them on. I saw the infrared signal for Alpha Company toward the southwest end and knew where to go. Rodriguez had already spotted his place, and we took off, leaving Capt. Pogue to find his own way.

About 100 meters down the runway, I approached Alpha Co.’s marker. A sergeant held it. There was another marker farther down, but it wasn’t mine. “Sergeant,” I said, “anybody here from Charlie?” There wasn’t, so I moved a ways down, dropped my ruck and watched for movement in the grass. For the next few moments, I was Charlie Company.

Our first arrival was a Pennsylvania kid named Bill Clepper, who instantly handed me his weapon, pulled out his poncho and smoked a cigarette. I stuck my head in for a drag and returned to watch. Next, members of the company started filing in rapidly. When Sgt. Husketh arrived with Charlie’s marker, I finally thought to look at my watch.

What seemed like forever had been less than half an hour from the time I’d stepped out the door of the plane. Time didn’t fly. I assume this means I wasn’t having fun.