Hamburger Hill

    Tony didn’t know Shorty’s father. He just knew that he was in Vietnam. Shorty bragged on him. He was proud of his dad, the warrior.
    Tony seldom saw news about the war, but if his father and mother weren’t in the room, he caught glimpses on the 6:00 news. It was nasty stuff.
    It was Wednesday, and Tony had a baseball game. 
    Far from South Jersey, the 2/4 Marine Battalion was engaged in a fierce fight with a North Vietnamese Army division. The fight was over a piece of dirt. At first, the hill of dirt only had a number: 937. Later, they gave it a name: Hamburger Hill. Sounds better dying over a piece of dirt if it has a name. Shorty’s father was in the 2/4. 
    At the field, parents took places in the bleachers, finding shade from the lowering sun. Dads sat with dads, and moms sat with moms. A few lone men came to the games, too. They said they liked watching the kids play, but everyone knew they came to check out the moms.
    They chatted about this or that. Some complained about the new mayor. What the hell was he doing with the intersection by the school. Idiot. Some talked about whether the team had any chance to make it out of the regional. Some gossiped about what small town people gossip. The lone men tried to catch a peek up the ladies’ skirts. It was an ordinary May evening.
    The first pitch was hurled to Tony; Shorty’s dad was in the fight of his life, over hill 937.  He and his buddies were outnumbered three to one.
    Shorty’s dad was crouched down, trying not to get shot in the head; Tony singled to left field, knocking in the first of the five runs his team would score that inning.
    Tony was in line shaking hands with the opposing team; Shorty’s dad popped his head up to see air support.
    Encouraged by the planes over head, Shorty’s father took up a position in the brush southeast of the Hill. All of a sudden, the planes were gone. It was quiet.
    His sergeant picked four men to push forward into the paths between the smoldering thatch huts. They moved through dead, burnt bodies. Every so often, a hog, a cat, or a dog emerged from the rubble and startled them. The sergeant and his men walked with pronounced vigilance, listening as each boot landed a step closer to the smoldering residue. Each knew the next step could be the last.
    Sweat poured down Shorty’s father’s face. He did not dare move to wipe it off. It dripped into the dirt and made mud under his chin. His hand held fast to the gun and he squinted against the sunshine. The sergeant held up his right hand and his men stopped hard. The sergeant looked back across the space between him and the hole in the ground where Shorty’s father crouched. Before the sergeant could lower his hand, a bullet pierced through his helmet; he fell to the ground and the marines around him dove for cover. All hell broke loose. Brutal fighting erupted, shattering the morning. Snipers were everywhere, and tracer bullets flickered in disorder around the ambushed marines.
    Shorty’s father was firing, emptying his gun into the village. He couldn’t see the enemy. He fired indiscriminately in the direction from which the deadly shot had come. He was shooting at ghosts.
    Shots rang out from behind Shorty’s father. The Viet Cong surrounded him. A VC soldier who had stolen a flamethrower opened the weapon on the dirt hole. Blood curdling screams penetrated the morning. The fiery blasts burnt Shorty’s father beyond recognition. Six of his comrades met the same fate. There was no telling the white from the black.