365 Days by Ronald J. Glasser Read Free Book Online

another smoke grenade and threw it to the left. The thick smoke curled back over them.
    “18,” the radio crackled, “where the fuck are you? OK, see you, green smoke.”
    Mayfield picked up the microphone, “Roger, green, request first round W.P.”
    “Roger, 18. Coming in from the west. Get your heads down.”
    Mayfield dropped the horn. “Tac Air!” he yelled, “Tac Air!” The cry was carried up and down the grove. Taking off his helmet, he pushed himself flat on the ground and, burying his face in the dirt, covered his ears. Everyone was doing the same thing.
    “18,” the radio squawked, “see the smoke.” A second later a phantom came roaring in over the grove, no more than fifty feet off the ground. The sound was deafening; even with his hands over his ears, the noise was painful. The earth vibrated, and then the air seemed to be sucked up from the ground. A moment later, the ground heaved up into his face, and with a dull shock the explosions, carrying dirt and rocks, passed over them. Without lifting his head, Mayfield picked up the horn.
    “Thunder/18, Shell H and E; repeat, Shell H and E.”
    “18/Thunderchief,” the voice answered. “Roger that.”
    The second phantom came in even lower. Pressed into the ground, Mayfield saw the shadow pass by, heard the same deafening roar, and this time the incredible explosions of H and E.
    “Once more,” the voice said lightly. “I still see something moving. Hang on, coming around again.”
    A dirty haze from the explosions rose up in front of the grove, blocking out the sun. All the firing had stopped. They came in together this time—six yards apart, four feet off the ground. Mayfield dug in even deeper. The tangle of the hedgegrove was blown apart by the jet’s exhausts. Then, roaring over, shattering the air, the planes passed. A moment later the heat and concussions of the explosions seared past them, burning the tops of the grove. Mayfield looked up and, through the dirt, saw the two planes already a half mile away, still on the deck, beginning to bank to the right and left.
    The hedgegroves in front and to the sides were flaming wrecks. To his left, he could hear the whooshing of incoming artillery. Mayfield switched to the command net. It was bursting now: Red Legs, Dust Offs, Tac Air—they were giving casualties out in the open. Mayfield couldn’t recognize one voice; the Old Man in the C and C chopper was overhead, taking care of the whole thing. Behind them the firing was picking up again.
    The medics had carried the wounded into a clear space toward the back of the grove. Mayfield, watching them stack the dead, was just getting up when a rocket hit right in the middle of the area, and the concussion knocked him over again. Numbed, he struggled back to his feet. Around the aid station the bodies were sprawled all over the place. He could hear the gunships whooping in off to his left. Still dazed, he pressed the button. He had been holding onto the horn the whole time.
    “Priority one, this is River 18.” He repeated it without waiting for an acknowledgment. “Need Dust Off, urgent.”
    The Old Man cut in, “River 18/6, switch to air-evac net.”
    Mayfield had trouble moving his arm. “Dust Off, this is River 18, urgent.” While he was talking he stared at the shambles that had been the aid station. Some of the men had already left the perimeter to help; there were cries all around for medics. They must have all been hit, he thought. The VC were dropping rounds everywhere. He was counting slowly to himself, totaling up the casualties, trying to be accurate. He pressed the button: “Fifteen wounded; repeat, fifteen wounded—eight, ten, critical.”
    The radio crackled, “River 18, this is Dust Off 4. Is the area secure?”
    “Negative.” An M-60 opened up again on his flank.
    “Roger, River 18, coming in. River 18, can you give me smoke?”
    “Negative,” Mayfield said. “I have you visual, will direct you in.” He couldn’t