In Vietnam if you heard the shot you were granted another day to live.
Youth were wasted by politicians but treasured by his buddies.
THE POINT MAN AND THE MONKEY
They had walked all day, since they could see the surroundings under the predawn lights.
The platoon was alternating the stretchers bearers every five hundred yards, as they tried to save strength going over uneven terrain here and muddy stretches there that sucked the boots down to the ankles making it a tough going. They didn’t wanted to unnecessary shake the wounded that were out cold by morphine shots.
The wounded were two, a chopper crew and the 50mm gunner, that under heavy fire had flown away from the action leaving a trail of heavy smoke and oil spry after receiving a partial hit by a ground to air propelled grenade; they had flown as far away as they could until it was time to go down without nose diving.
The trees don’t wanted to apply and they crashed, hard.
No chopper rescue works here, only a platoon to answer the mayday.
The two rear men scanned right and left and any sign of an up a tree perched sniper waiting to greet them.
Now and then, the unnerving wail of some kind of bird provoked a twitch in the trigger fingers.
They hadn’t seen any rice paddy yet, where sure enough one of the choppers could take them out of there.
Rice pads meant people, and people meant that Charlie was somewhere around.
They were on the last klick before reaching the top of a tree bared low hill where the chopper will touchdown when the radioman holler for one.
Charlie wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near.
They kept going.
The point man was carefully selecting their trail, looking for bobby trap telltales, unusual mounts on the ground, a carelessly thrown stick, anything that would be consider a stepping on danger.
His father had teach him the science of tracking as his grandfather did teach his son and up the family line until reaching Plymouth Rock, where the first of them got an Indian Elder to introduce him to the art of tracking elks and buffalo, read in the grass if brother wolf was hungry of coming back from a kill feast.
Twenty-seven missions and twenty-seven point-man duties, as the last one got careless and got caught by a punjii made of sharpened bamboo’s points.
He wasn’t going to commit the same error, get distracted, or cocksure of being right all the time.
His eyes darting from ground to immediate surrounding to ahead and back to ground, to broken grass leaves, awkward positioned twigs…anything.
He was the point man, the one in charge to see that no one set foot on a deadly trap, he was the one reading on the ground if brother-wolf had come by leaving greetings to the intruders.
He was in charge to make it possible for two chopper-crew to get ASP to base and the hospital with their broken bones.
He was also responsible for…
A minute and distant movement catch his attention, the alert alarm started to ring hysterically inside his head.
He had been there before, many a good man had died because he felt victim of his nerves giving away his position to the enemy by shooting dead a sudden running in panic lizard.
His arm went up with a tight fist on its end, stop signal.
Nobody questioned.
His arm went down, open hand with the palm towards the ground.
Everybody went down on one knee, the rear men fanning the rear landscape.
The point man eyes were almost closed, two slits on a camouflage greased face, he wasn’t going to grab the binoculars, no chancing a reflex from the glasses or to make any movement that could alert someone out there.
It had been inside a tree branches, three hundred yards away at one o’clock.
Man or monkey?
They have monkeys in these parts?
Should I pop one for good measure?
Would it give us away?
What if it is a sniper?
“What?” the Sarge whispered.
“At two o’clock, over, on the thick round tree,” the point man whispered back.
A minute passed, long, oppressive heavy, “I see nothing on my scope,” whispered the Sarge again, “are you sure you saw something there?”
“Sure? Of course I am sure,” the point man replied with an hissing whisper like he was pissed off by the lack of confidence from the Sarge, “something moved over there, have you see ever a monkey in these parts?”
After ten minutes of waiting the Sarge said “Move on”
The point man moved on, really pissed, doing what he wasn’t supposed to do, getting distracted, advancing again, saying, “fuck the monkey!” to himself.
He should have asserted the Point Man authority against that of the new on the block Sergeant.
His mother got the posthumous Purple Heart, because it wasn’t a monkey on that tree.
Georg - Enjoyed reading " The Point Man & The Monkey." I've learned to always listen to experience over rank, not just in the military but in life. - David
Reviewed by Fred Tomasello
9/7/2007
The ending, like the sniper's bullet, is a surprise slap to the face. Although this is a sad Vietnam story, the incident is common to all wars--a newbie wanting to exert their inexpereinced and careless authority over a veteran whose honed instincts have proven safe and sure. The truth about what happens in war must be told. We always honor the brave and bury the careless and stupid. Truth will balance the exaggerated boastfulness of liars and Hollywood wannabes. Semper Fi to all combat veterans.
When a new cock-sure liuetenant fresh from OCS, or the "Point", or a bastard of a first sergeant, arrived "in country" to tell us experienced ones what to do....their very first night they got a CS grenade in their hooch, just to let them know it could have been one of the more lethal variety.
THE POINT MAN AND THE MONKEY
